
>N^ 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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®]^p> ®ijp^ng|i !f 0, 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Connecticut River Reeds. 





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Po£trg of t\)t iFaim anb lolural ILifr 



Connecticut River 



REEDS 



BLOWN BY THE 



"Peasant Bard''^ 



"^x 




BOSTON 

JOSEPH GEORGE CUPPLES 

3Pui)lfsI)er anti General SSooksellcr _ . 

250 BOYLSTON STREET ^^ / / •^ 






Copyright, 18<J2, 
By E. S. CHAPIX. 



AU righ,'8 reserved. 



TO MY GRANDSONS, 

1baroI& Cannina anD jEC)war^ iRc^cllttc 
Cbapin, 

THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY 

DEDICATED, HOPING THAT ITS PERUSAL 

WILL REMIND THEM OF THE MANY HAPPY 

VACATION DAYS SPENT UPON THE FARM OF THEIR 

GRANDFATHER. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Prefatorv xi 

Introduction xiii 

Address to Connecticut River .... 1 
Autumnal Leaves: 

I. Maple 5 

II. Chestnut 7 

III. Ash 9 

A Winter Night's Epistle 11 

A Winter Morning's Epistle 16 

A Mother's Lament 18 

To A Bobolink 19 

Epistle to Hugh Ainslie 21 

Poem at Celebration op Turner's Falls 

Fight 24 

To A Wild Rose 31 

Lines on the Death of Little Clara . 32 

The Blue-Bird 34 

On Planting an Elm Trek 36 

The Old Pod-auger Days 37 

The Ruined Mill 39 

Nocturne 41 

Lines on Finding a Dead Bird .... 42 
A Stormy Night's Epistle to '' Old 

Knick" . . . ... 43 



viii CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Thresher and the Rat 46 

The Shad-Fishers 51 

A Night in a Country Inn 69 

The Greenhorn's Visit to the City . 73 

The Stranger's Tale 79 

Uncle Mose's Story 90 

Songs : 

Mary Mavournin 93 

The Winds that from Monadnock 

blow 94 

Josie, Josephine 95 

What Time the Kine came down 

THE Brae 95 

Washing by the Brook 96 

The Old Farmer's Elegy 97 

A Few Lines to the Devil 99 

To THE Violin 102 

The Deserted Schoolhouse 105 

Rheumatism 107 

Autumnal 109 

The Border Hunter Ill 

The Hunter's Home Ill 

A Winter Thaw 115 

Unadilla Brook 116 

Poem delivered at the Return of the 

'' Old Indian Door " 119 

Lines to a Bee 121 

Lines to a Turtle 123 

To A Red Squirrel 126 

Indian Summer 128 

The Field Flower 130 

A New Year's Lay 131 

Night Watch 132 

The Old Country Church 132 

Wind of the Winter Night 135 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 



PAGE ^ 



Portrait Frontispiece 

Turner's Falls Facing page 30 '^ 

Unadilla Brook " "116^ 

Indian Summer " " 128 i^ 



PREFATORY. 

Louis Gaylord Clarke, Esq., the g-euial editor of 
the old New York Knickerbocker magazine, upon 
the publication of my " Lament of the Cherokee," 
first introduced me to the public as the "Peasant 
Bard," in reference to my occupation. The title 
has clung to me ever since. Now, a peasant, in 
the European sense of the word, most assuredly I 
am not ; at the same time must truthfully accept 
Webster's definition of the term : " one whose oc- 
cupation is rural labor." I am a New England 
farmer, and almost every poem in the following 
pages came to my mind afield, while my hands 
were busy with the varied labors of the farm. 

In hope that my brother farmers, and the citi- 
zen who may recollect with longing the simple 
beauties of the rural life of his early days, shall 
find amusement in the perusal of these pages, on 
a stormy indoor's day or at the winter evening 
fireside, I shall feel rewarded in giving this little 
volume to the press. 

JosiAH Dean Canning. 

Gill on the Connecticut, 
Franklin County, Mass. 



INTRODUCTION^. 



JosiAH Dean Canning was born Aug. 31, 1816; 
died March 16, 1892. 

The greater part of his life was passed in the 
town of his birth. Gill, on the Connecticut River, 
a locality where Nature has done much to make 
beautiful the surroundings of the rural homes 
clustered among the hills that margin the winding 
course of the river. Its quiet scenes of changing 
foliage and moving life in woods and field were 
a constant inspiration to him. 

His cares, pertaining to farm life, together with 
duties imposed by public trusts in town and 
county, were many, but with all he found time to 
jot down in poetic form thoughts which came to 
him, colored and made beautiful by his intense 
love of Nature's work, never losing sight of a 
Divine Power controlling all. 

The rugged and picturesque beauty of Mr. 
Canning's poetry has given it a place in the hearts 
of its readers, and is loved by the people who 
live along his much-loved river, as the poems of 
Whittier are loved by the people of the Merrimac 
Valley. 

His writings were also highly appreciated by 



xi V INT ROD UC TIOX. 

contemporary writers. William Ciillen Bryant 
and J. G. Holland were among his friends and 
correspondents. 

His first attempts at poetry appeared in a spicy 
little weekly paper, I'he Village Post, edited and 
printed by himself when fifteen years of age. A 
collection of his poems was printed in 1838, and 
another, "The Harp and Plow,'' in 1852. Since 
then his poems have not appeared in book form, 
although many urgent requests have been made 
that they might thus be made a permanent source 
of enjoyment to all lovers of rural life. 

His poetry is purely the spontaneous response 
of his feelings to the immediate circumstance, or 
the memories, pleasing or sad, which would not 
go until given expression in verse. 

He never would "grind out poetry to order," 
and wrote for the love of it or not at all ; always 
holding to good common sense in writing or speak- 
ing, and scorned to hide the underlying thought 
in a haze of meaningless words. 

A martial and patriotic spirit often pervades his 
lines, coming probably from his pardonable pride 
in the fact that the sires of his father and mother 
both fought at Bunker Hill and Yorktown, one of 
them commissioned a captain for special services 
by the President of the Continental Congress in 
1779. 

No care or trouble was sufficient to conquer a 
grim humor, which, sometimes sarcastic, was 
always irresistible. Shams he detested; but 
originality and real merit, however crude, he 
welcomed and thoroughly enjoyed. 

Mr. Canning was a never-failing friend of the 
Indian, and was one of the founders of the 



INTRODUCTION. xv 

" Pocumptoc Valley Memorial Associatiou," giv- 
ing it the hearty support of his voice and pen. 

"REST, SPIRIT! REST! 

"The sounding aisles of free New England's woods, 
Her life-blood gushing from the shaded fonts 
That slaked th.y thirst, still trickling from the hills 
With murmured plaint; and, ceaseless, leading all, 
Yon torrent's voice, deep, solemn, and sublime, 
Thy requiem shall be ! " 

Canning. 



ADDRESS TO CONNECTICUT RIVER. 

WHEN first the Indian, on his wild survey, 
Broke from the covert of his forest way. 
And on thy shore a breathing statue stood 
To gaze upon thy silver-gleaming flood ; 
If ever Indian struck poetic fire, 
Or faintest warble from Apollo's lyre, 
If ever red-man breathed a grateful prayer 
To the Great Spirit, it was then and there ! 

On our cold border of Canadian hills, 

Midst lonely lakelets and unnoted rills. 

Thou hast thy birth, sweet River of the Vale, 

Of fountains purest, and that never fail. 

My fancy paints thee on thy march begun. 

The infant river's first essay to run : 

A sturdy brooklet, gathering the springs, 

And giving " promise of much greater things." 

So some bright genius, from a lonely birth, 

Goes with his God-gifts to rejoice the earth. 

On glides the stream, and with increasing length, 
Receives in trust its volume and its strength : 
Here, by wild mountain shagg'd with piney hair, 
A brook comes tumbling down its rocky stair, 
Leaps to thy bosom with a shout of joy, 
Like some delighted, journey-promised boy; 



^ CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

There, more like maiden, sweet, composed, and still, 
Steals from the plain the tributary rill. 
Anon, fresh from its native mountains roU'd, 
Wild Ammonoosuc, with its waters cold, 
Adds to thy wealth ; and farther still along, 
Sweet Ashuelot hails thee with a song. 
Pocomptuc, hermit of the western hills, 
Gives to thy flood his own collected rills ; 
Fretted with toil, and seeking rest in thee. 
Sinks to thy breast the laboring Chicopee ; 
And Westfield, murmuring for its Indian name, 
Still bright and sparkling as at first it came 
From Berkshire's caverned hills and rifts of snow, 
Adds to thy pureness, as it swells thy flow. 

Oh, life-blood of the valley, and of me ! 
Thus pulsing on, thy current seeks the sea; 
And when thy shores give place to Ocean's tide 
That opes before thee, rolling far and wide, 
Like one whose life in blessing has been passed. 
Thou glidest calmly to thy rest at last. 

So rich and varied, with enchantment rare, 
Along thy banks thy bordering beauties are ; 
Should painter copy faithfully and true 
The scenic glories that belong to you. 
Scarce nature copied would his picture seem, 
But some bright, beautiful, ideal dream. 
Variety is thine ; as if to move 
The multifarious taste of man to love : 
Here, by green shores thy waters seem to sleep ; 
There, flashing, dashing, in a torrent leap. 
Flecking with foam the trembling, cliffy shore, 
And sending far abroad their muffled roar. 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. o 

Oft, waked at midnight, I have mused to hear, 
Borne by the nig;ht breeze to my " hearing ear," 
The solemn anthem of thy thundering tide, 
Where Turner battled, and the Indian died. 
Now lulled the breeze — a whisper hoarse of grief ; 
Now swelling rose the death-song of the chief ; 
And Justice, prompting with his rigid power, 
Scann'd History's record at the thoughtful hour. 
Ah, yet more just shall that stern record be 
To those who died for love of home and thee ! 

Thou dost exert an influence in thy flow 
Strong as thy current, and as silent too. 
Thy shores that bless with beauty every eye, 
Thy placid waters stealing calmly by. 
Thy elms so full of dignity serene, 
Thy mountains sleeping o'er a quiet scene, 
Incite to peaceful thoughts, and ope the road 
That leads " through Nature up to Nature's God." 

And many hardy wanderers of the deep. 
Who plough its billows or beneath them sleep. 
First dreamed of ocean in life's morn, when they 
Toiled on thy banks, or strayed in childish play : 
Thy mimic surges, whispering on the shore. 
Awakened love for ocean's solemn roar ; 
Thy seaward journey, and expanse so wide, 
Waked curious longings for the shoreless tide. 
Then Fancy pictured, with her colors gay. 
Their hopeful future, bright, and far away : 
A life of daring on the ocean-wave, 
The fadeless laurels of the seaman brave, 
Such as Macdonough and Decatur wore, 
The flag of Freedom and the battle's roar ; 



4: CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

The piping winds, the music of the deep, 
All vaguely blended as in dreams of sleep, 
Wrought those high colors on their youthful brain 
Which Time will fade, but not retouch again. 

How oft a Ledyard can from distant lands 
Look back to thy bright flood and silver sands 
As first incentives to that spirit high 
Which stirs the trav'ler, and directs his eye 
O'er earth in search of paradise to roam. 
To find, at last, ' twas left with thee at home 

And much I owe thee ; more than I can sing : 
Ere half -fledged Fancy tried her fluttering wing, 
When floating thoughts, of Truth and Eiction born, 
Hung, like thy misty cloud on April morn, 
O'er and around me — vapors of the brain. 
Now like to something, now convolved again — 
Thy charming influence shaped the forming strain ; 
It rose incited by thy Naiad throng ; 
God gave the elements — thou gav'st the song ! 
And kneeling, now, beside thy crystal brink, 
Thou'rt the Pierian from which I drink. 

Oh, sweetest stream that poet ever sung ! 

Here to thy waters is my ofi'ering flung. 

Would that its worth were such, a bard might know 

Thou wouldst upbear it whilst those waters flow ! 

And when in years that swift are stealing on, 

I to the shadowy spirit-realms have gone. 

Some bard more skilful and with sweeter lyre 

May thee emblazon with Apollo's fire : 

Smoother than mine his strains for thee may move. 

But more devoted cannot be his love. 



w 



CONNECTICUT RIEVR REEDS. ' 

AUTUMNAL LEAVES. 
I. MAPLE. 

HEN withered leaves around my way 

Drift in the fresh autumnal blast, 
I view them, as they rustling play, 

As Summer's phantoms flitting past. 
In some still nook, or sheltering lee 
Of roaring woods, they seem to me 
When resting from their eddying flight, 

To build departed Summer's urn ; 
Where Phcebus pours a saddened light 

Like moonlight fanned to burn. 

The rivulet lowers its babbling voice, 

Past its brown banks runs dreamily ; 
It seems to take, as if from choice, 

The melancholy minor key. 

All nature's full of sympathy : 
The winds and waters, woods and plains, 
Together blend their dirge-like strains ; 
The lonely bird forbears to sing ; 

Grief -stifled seems each tuneful throat ; 
E'en darker grows the raven's wing, 

And desert-like his note. 

The herd-boy, keeping watch a-fleld 

Beside the late outstanding grain, 
Marks leaves in gusty circles wheeled 

And scattered o'er the russet plain \ 
Or sees the wavy-line that floats 
In the gray rack to flute-like notes ; 
Wild fowl are harrowing the sky, 

The early harbingers of snow ; 
Far southward on his straining eye 

All indistinct they grow. 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

The dying winds, as sets the sun, 

Usher the gloaming and expire ; 
The frosty stars gleam, one by one, 

Like ice reflecting distant fire. 
The moon awaits her time to rise 
To bathe with her cold light the skies ; 
The frost king creeps in stillness forth ; 

While shooting upward high and higher, 
The nameless wizard of the north 

Kindles his ghostly fire. 

The peasant homeward hieing now, 

Belated, turns his thoughtful gaze, 
And sees on high the starry " Plough" 

Pale through the evanescent blaze. 
Thoughts, sad yet pleasing, crowd his mind ; 
Thoughts formless half, and half defined, 
Such as the bard and painter feel, 

But fail to picture or to sing ; 
Thoughts that of genius fix the seal 

And point her upward wing ! 

The hunter, camped beside the spring. 

Where the red maple sheltering stands. 
As low the welling waters sing, 

And cheerful shine his blazing brands. 
Moodily muses as his eye 
Watches the flashing northern sky, 
And dreams in Odin's distant hall 

Hunters some kingly banquet share. 
And he, one day, when Death shall call, 
Shall mingle with them there. 

When withered leaves around my way 
Drift in the fresh autumnal blast, 

I look upon them as they play. 
As Summer's phantoms flitting past. 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. » 

In stilly nook, or sheltering lee 

Of waving woods, they seem to me, 

When gathering from their eddying flight. 

To build departed Summer's urn, 
Where Phoebus pours a mellowed light 

Like moonlight fanned to burn. 



II. CHESTNUT. 

HOW beautiful the picture is that nature 
spreads to-day ! 
For autumn clothes her second-born in fan- 
ciful array ; 
And through the hazy lift the sun a softened splen- 
dor sends, 
That wraps the scene in quietude, — a sweet 
enchantment lends. 

How like to elves in elfin land yon troop of children 

Turning the hill-side leaves to find the bright 

brown nut below ! 
And every treasure brings a shout, and brings 

all there to see, 
Like as the eddying gust collects the honors of the 

tree. 

The jay, that in the summer days was scarcely 
seen at all, 

Flits frequent through the pictured bush, and 
startles with its call, 

And seems to warn its feathered mates, with 
quick and earnest cries. 

Beware of Winter's biting breath, and bitter scowl- 
ing skies ! 



8 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

The squirrel on the mossy log, within the hollow 
wood, 

Clucks loud to tell that he's secured a store of win- 
ter food ; 

His kinsman clad in " hoddin gray," the hunter 
fain would see. 

With tiny claws goes scratching up the rough, 
nut-bearing tree. 

The duck, within the dented shore, where spreads 

the mimic bay, 
Sits silent, motionless, save when a ripple rounds 

away ; 
And seems to watch the colored tints reflected 

from below, 
Or list Dominion's coming step, so stealthy, and so 

slow ! 

I see the waters of the brook, that in the summer 

time 
Went singing onward down the vale, a kind of 

" catch-me " chime, — 
Now seem to linger by the bank, and linger by the 

brae, 
As if all loth, from such a scene, to run in haste 

away. 

Can fairy land, — can "land of dreams," such 
scene enchanting show ? 

So soft the heavens smile above ! so glad the 
earth below ! 

As if millennial angels had their banners bright 
unfurled, 

And Peace, dear Peace ! her censer swung in sweet- 
ness o'er the world ! 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 



III. ASH. 

SOUNDS the rooster's wakeful warning : 
T is a damp and foggy morning, 

Thick and gray ; 
Sure the shades of night are flea, 
But there 's something else instead 
Of the day. 
'T is the night, painted white, 
And the eye is unavailing 
In tlie vapor all assailing 
With its shroud; 
We are gloom'd, gloom'd, gloom'd! 
All the landscape is entombed 
In a cloud ! 

'T is the time when winds are sighing, 
And the leaves — they are dying, 

And are dead ; 
See the ashes, tall and slim. 
Standing by the water's brim, 

Where they fed ; 
How they shed all their dead 
Summer plumes that hid the nest 
Where the birdie took its rest 

'Mid the leaves ! 
Down dripping, dripping, dripping, 
Like the rain, softly slipping, 

From the eaves. 

There 's a sort of muffled drumming.. 
For the distant mill is humming, 
Grinding grist ; 



10 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

And the fisher-king is winging, 
And his clacking rattle springing 

In the mist : 
And I hear, seeming near, 
As it were, the distant greeting 
Of two early goers, meeting — 

Strangely loud ; 
And the clipper, clipper, clipper ! 
How the wings of that " dipper " 

Cut the cloud ! 

But the sun at last is wading 
Through the vapor overshading — 

There he shines ! 
And the curtain, upward stealing, 
Slow the landscape is revealing, 

" To the Nines." 
Stooks of grain on the plain 
Look like wigwams on the prairie, 
Some encampment of the wary 

Brothers red ; 
And with tittle, tattle, tattle, 
Waters sparkle as they prattle 

O'er their bed. 

But the eye of day is dimmer 
Than in summer ; has a glimmer 

Palely bright ; 
Phoebus wearies of his toil, 
Or is getting short of oil 
For his light. 
But the flowers still are ours : 
There's a honeysuckle twining, 
And the golden-rod is shining, 
Bright to view ; 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. H 

And, oh! bonnie, bounie, bonnie! 
There's the fringy little honey, 
Gentian blue ! 

And the days are shorter growing : 
Down the Occidental going, 

Sinks the sun ; 
And the stars that night adorn, 
Clip the twilight, and are born, 

All as one. 
Oh, my soul ! so they roll — 
Roll the days, the months, the years ! 
Full of gladness, full of tears 

Are our eyes ; 
Till, solemn, solemn, solemn, 
Foots the sum-total column : 

Here he lies ! 



W 



A WINTER NIGHT'S EPISTLE. 

To Editor Knickerbocker Magazine. 

ILD is the night ! for winter reigns ; 
The north-wind sounds its fiercest strains 
The shaking doors and window-panes 
Make furious din ; 
And through the chinks the powdery grains 
Come sifting in. 

I'll mend the fire ere it decays, 

Pile on the wood, and make it blaze : 

This is one, surely, of the days 

Of which we've read, 
Or rather nights, when the Fiend strays 

On errands dread ! 



12 CONNECTICUT BIVER REEDS. 

There lies my dog, his brains a-baking, 

And fierce gesticulations making ; 

In dreams the Snow-hill fox he's shaking 

With mortal spite ; 
Or else he's giving or is taking 

" Fits" in a fight. 

Strange voices out-of-doors I hear : 
The shout of rage, the howl of fear; 
As if mad fiends from regions drear 

In furious haste 
Have broken loose, on wild career 

To lay earth waste. 

Some seem an awful organ thrumming ; 
Some on the roofs and walls are drumming ; 
And one, smoke-choked or singed in coming 

Down the hot fine. 
Is ofi", and sets the chimney humming 

With angry w-h-e-w ! 

I'll whittle to a pen this quill, 

And though the thing be fashioned ill, 

Yet o'er this paper with such skill 

I'll haply scratch it, 
That he who dates " Up River " will, 

He only, match it ! 

I've sometimes thought 't would be great 

pleasure 
To have more learning and more leisure, 
And give my muse fair chance to measure 

H erself with others , 
Who, though they deem such kin no treasure, 
Are yet my brothers. 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 13 

But how should I obtain a living, 
And half my time to letters giving? 
Translating from strange tongues, and thieving 

What's not well known, 
And set admiring fools believing 

Its all my own? 

I might as well just launch a shingle 
Upon the brook whose waters jingle 
Through my domain, on down the dingle, 

The flood to greet, 
And dream the chip will reach and mingle 

With ocean's fleet. 

That God whose lamp illumes the heaven, 
Who breaks to us the vital leaven, 
I feel and know to me has given 

Light from His light ; 
But toils of common life have striven 

To quench it, quite. 

" There's poetry in farming." True 
But I have read, and so have you, 
That ' ' distance lends unto the view 

Enchantment fair." 
For instance : digging gold will do 

Till one gets there. 

In summer planting, weeding, hoeing, 

And practising ^'Ivnick's knack" at mowing, 

(That science which you boast of knowing 

So very well,) 
The scorching sun no mean type showing 

Of what's called hell. 



14 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

In winter tugging with the flail, 
Or sledding in a catting gale, 
Such as would scud a gallant sail 

In bare-poles seaward, 
And blows your fore-nag's lusty tail 

Straight out to leeward. 

In place of literary talk, 
AVith compeers in your daily walk, 
It's " Shall you top, or cut the stalk 
Of that ' ere crop? " 
Or, ' ' Sold yer cattle — how'll ye chalk 
To sell, or swop?" 

Not half the prose may well be told 
Which farmers every day behold 
In summer hot and winter cold, 

Dull as 't is real ; 
Yet we've incentives manifold 

To the ideal. 

The pictures in the book of June ; 
The glorious dawn, the balmy noon; 
" The dewy eve, the rising moon;" 

All these are ours. 
And all the recompensing boon 

Of birds and flowers. 

When Winter hurls his storms apace. 

Oft p iteous is the farmer's case : 

Night comes — the blazing chimney-place 

Stills all complaints ; 
Thaws out his features, till his face 

Shines like a saint's. 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 15 

There, while his cheer reeks to the ceiling, 
He gets most comfortably feeling, 
Thinking how barn and battened shieling, 

Secure and warm, 
His poor dependents safe are shielding 

From the wild storm. 

There he may read, and muse, and ponder 
Upon this life, this world of wonder; 
There, judge-like, he may set asunder 

The truth from error, 
And see in men of " blood and thunder" 

No cause for terror- 
There he may form just estimate 
Of those the world calls good and great ; 
See fortune, circumstance, and fate 

Create renown, 
And give a knave a chair of state, 

An ass a crown. 

An old divine* — he's been away 

In " kingdom come " this many a day — 

Once said, " Say what you have to say, 

And then have done." 
The sum of that will I obey , 

And carry one. 

Adieu, dear Knick ! Peace make your bed ! 
You, too, were country-born and bred, 
And can appreciate all I've said. 

And dare to print it. 
Green be the laurel round your head, 

And glory tint it ! 

♦Rev. Dr. Witherspoon of New Jersey, one of "the 
Signers." 



16 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

A WINTER MORNING'S EPISTLE TO SAME 

January 18. 



Dear Knick: 



T 



'M siting meekly by the fire, 
Watching the window-drifts grow higher. 
A half-hour since, bold o'er my lyre, 
I cried in rhyme, 
Thalia, blessed ! me inspire 

To song sublime ! 

Whereat, at once the " frenzy fine" 
That poets feel, is straightway mine, 
And down, to trace the glowing line, 

At once I set me. 
With more than half the spicy Nine 

Fain to abet me. 

Thoughts vigorous as the living oak, 
Yet shapeless in their forest cloak ; 
Like rank-and-file in battle-smoke, 

Enough appearing 
To warrant some decisive stroke. 

Or general clearing : 

Fancies around my goose-quill gleam, 

As bright as ever led a dream ; 

Just on the very point, 't would seem, 

Of being taken, 
When Racket starts her noisy team, 

The reins well shaken. 

Her team consists of children three. 
Whose mother says they " look like me ; " 
More lively " bairns " you'll seldom see, 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 17 

More fond of noise ; 

I've not the heart to chill their glee, 

And damp their joys. 

So while I write they make their fun, 
And various are the doings done : 
Bear-shooting with a wooden gun, 

Myself the bear; 
Or ranting round the floor they run, 

Sledding a chair. 

A three-foot Stentor " Whoa! haw 1 " cries 
His reckless hand the whip-lash plies ; 
We duck, and dodge, and wink our eyes 

As 't whistles nigh us ; 
Till, crack ! around my head it flies, 

And I feel pious. 

About that time it gets to be 

" Hard sledding," quite too hard for me; 

I serve injunctions, but, you see. 

Silence don't follow ; 
Young "E Plu. Unum," full of glee, 

Must bu'st or hollo. 

Concerted music doesn't fail ; 
But " By-lo-Baby," " Lily Dale," 
Are done most feelingly, with hale 

Vociferations, 
In all the key-notes of the scale. 

With "variations." 

My thoughts grow dim and fancies scatter; 
No use the muse to coax or flatter ; 
At most she'll compromise the matter 



18 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

By bidding me 
In gleesome cliildhood's storm-bound clatter 
My theme to see. 

In casting retrospective squint 

O'er what is penned, it seems her hint 

Is acted on — not much else in 't; 

But then I'll send it ; 
And maybe you'll conclude to print 

It as I've penned it. 

I'll merely add a word, to say 

The "world of letters " should straightway 

Go into mourning ; well they may ; 

They came near getting 
A perfect gem ; alack-a-day ! 

'T was spoiled in setting ! 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT. 

9 f I "^WAS when the rye was in the blow, 
I And Summer's breath was sweet, 
My baby from my arms did go. 
The Lord of love to meet. 

Again the rye is In the blow, 
The clover bloom is sweet ; 

But fairer flower than June can show* 
Is dust beneath my feet. 

Again the sheltering maples fling 
Their shadows round my door ; 

Again the social warblers sing 
As cheerly as before. 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 19 

How beauteous once to me the bough ! 

How welcome once its shade ! 
But deeper shadow wraps me now, 

Than e'er the maples made. 

Still swings the bird her hammock there, 

So happy with her own ; 
Ah me ! I once her song could share, 

But my dear nestling 's flown. 

The gloaming shadows tint the vale, 

The sober moon I see, 
And lonely sounds the piping quail 

Out on the darkening lea. 

There's something gone, I do not see; 

Lost, that I cannot find ; 
To me a mournful melody 

Sounds in the voicef ul wind. 

Why, memory, wilt thou evoke 
Sweet phantoms from the past? 

O, why ! to vanish like the smoke, 
Swift fleeting in the blast. 



B 



TO A BOB-A-LINK. 

ARD amongst birds ! whose music prime 
Makes glad our early summer-time ; 
Could I infuse into my rhyme 
Thy jolly spirit, 
How would the jingling numbers chime 
With matchless merit ! 



20 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

Your temper never ranges low ; 
Indeed, such is your spirit's flow, 
A certain smartness goes to show 

You'll take repute in 
That class, or order, which we know 

As '■'■'highfaluUn." 

How from the tall, see-sawing spray 
You chant your crazy roundelay ; 
Or, chatting on your devious way, 

Anon you pass, 
Till whim your flight and lyric stay 

In the tall grass. 

Some birch-deserving youth I've seen, 
Whose act and aim alike were mean, 
Sneak slyly near thy leafy screen, 

And round thy head 
Let fly a direful volley keen 

Of fire and lead. 

But, lo ! unharmed you took to wing, 
And, as you flitted, seemed to sing : — 
" Shoot Bob-a-link! you trifling thing! 
Shoot Bob-a-link ! 
Your neck — Jack Ketch — some day — the 
string, 

I think, think, think ! " 

You're up and stirring in the morn ; 
Scarce has the cock'rel blown his horn 
Ere to my waking ears is borne 

Thy half -heard lay, 
Telling me sluggish sleep to scorn. 

For comes the day. 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

At noon, when, as a general thing, 
Your neighbor songsters fold the wing, 
And languidly forbear to sing, 

My ears take heed 
That merry Bob is wandering 

About the mead. 

When sinks the setting sun away, 
You prattle good-night to the day ; 
And homeward in the gloaming gray 

As I retire. 
You cheerly change from grave to gay 

My droning lyre. 

To the pale cit thy chance-heard strain 

Brings back his early days again ; 

The flowering meads, the emerald plain, 

Brooks, " banks, and braes; 
The golden links in memory's chain, — 

His brightest days. 

Oh, Bobby ! thdu'rt a biped rare ! 
Call on your kin — I've lots to spare ; 
Take choice, and build upon them where 

It suits you best ; 
I'll brand the villain hands that dare 

Disturb your nest. 



21 



D 



EPISTLE TO HUGH AINSLIE. 

A SCOTCH POET. 

EAR FRIEND : Surprise you'll doubtless feel, 
When this you get, and break the seal ; 
But one who wishes for your weal 
Subscribes the writing ; 



22 



CONNECTICUT EIVER REEDS. 

The Muses, fiddling a Scotch reel, 
Do the inditing. 

'T is sympathy that prompts my line : 
I never saw your face, and mine 
You never saw ; but I opine, 

That's matter small : 
The children of " the tuneful Nine " 

Are brothers all. 

The flowery, green Parnassian way, 
What crowds bedust it in our day ! 
Faith ! they've laid rails, and engines play 

Te Deums on it, 
And " ticket through " all who can pay 

A third-rate sonnet. 

For one, all independent grown, 
I'll have Parnassus of my own ! 
Old Holyoke, or Ascutney's cone, 

As classic should be, 
Or grand Monadnock's regal throne : — 

Ye gods ! they could be ! 

How few who try the rural song 
Strike notes that to the fields belong ! 
But lack some truthful feature strong : 

As painters clever 
Oft put the milkmaid on the wrong 

Side of the heifer. 

The fact is, he who doesn't know 
The i^rose, the poetry can't show, 
Of rural life, and make it glow 

With life-blood warm : 
Whoe'er that saw the beauteous bow, 

Saw not the storm? 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 23 

*• May Washing ! " * — I would rather own 
As mine that simple gem alone, 
Than half the stilted poems thrown, 

With flourish grand, 
From the great press, and puffed and blown 

About the land. 

Whate'er may be your fortune's grade, 

I'd take it, were the wager laid, 

That you have seen both light and shade 

Of Scottish life, 
And weary has your heart been made 

By worldly strife. 

brother bard ! canst thou explain 
Why Sorrow wakes the sweetest strain? 
Just as we hear the dear refrain 

That robins sing, 
While showers down the drenching rain 
In time of spring. 

Blaw sweetly Scotia's pipes, my britherl 

1 luve her ; she's my great grand-mither, 
Sae there's a sort, o' kindred tether 

Hands me to thee ; 
But mair thy sang, for sic anither 
We rarely see. 

Fame's eye may never yet have seen us ; 

Fate from the world's applause may screen us ; 

But shall these things suffice to wean us 

From soDg? No! never! 
The heirs of true poetic genius 

Hold fast for ever ! 

* The title of a little poem of Mr, Ainslie's. 



24 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

Adieu, O bard of Nature's making ! 

Some day tliy hand I may be talking : 

Don't know ; fain would — but Care is shaking 

Full fast life's sand ; 
But I've a notion we'll be waking 

In the leal land. 



POEM 

DELIVERED AT THE FIELD MEETING, BI-CENTENNIAL 
CELEBRATION OF THE TURNERS FALLS FIGHT. 

HERE, on this storied shore, within the sound 
Of these old voiceful waters, have we met 
To spend a profitable hour, and muse 
Upon the past, — two hundred years agone. 
And while we contemplate the present scene 
We, too, may give to Fancy latitude, 
In speculation on what here shall be 
When centuries again have lapsed away. 

And it is well at times to rest from cares 
That all engross us, and to step aside 
From life's highway, its dollars, din and dust. 
To Nature's calm retreats, and let our souls 
Be fed by her sweet whisperings, — the same 
Forevermore, as yesterday, to-day. 

Communing with the spirit of the Past, 
And conversant with annals of the Old, 
We dwell upon Time's workings, and take note 
That he, though ever restless, changeful, swift, 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

Is like a rapid, overflowing stream 
Bearing away our cherished fantasies, 
Yet leaving on the shore for us to see 
The solid grains of fertilizing Truth. 

Lo ! this is consecrated ground we tread ! 
The soil, the rocks, the very air we breathe 
Are full of memories of a vanished race 
Who here had being, and who cherished life 
According to the light to them vouchsafed, — 
Called " nature's darkness " by the sons of light. 
Here Clio paused, and wrote a bloody page, 
Whose color darkens and whose interest grows, - 
Dark'ning and deep'ning with the lapse of Time. 

O, Nature! let a son of thine bespeak 
For thy poor children grace of charity ! 
Our eyes to-day feast on thy fairness ; — see 
Thy panorama, mountain, flood, and fleld. 
Spread out in beauty, with the moon of May 
Renewing verdure to these shoring fields ; 
While the broad bosom of our Indian stream 
Mirrors thy beauties sweetly as of yore. 
Thy look impresses us ; thy promptings say : 
This is your country ! love it ! — well you may. 

Is it a wreath of mist from yonder flood, 
Like to a human form, which there I see 
On yonder islet that subtends the fall? 
Or the grim spirit of the sylvan chief. 
Wrapped in his robe of pride and dignity? 
Is it the anthem of the thundering tide 
Where Turner battled and the Indian died, 
The voice I hear? or does the spirit speak? 
O, listen well ! — I act interpreter : 



25 



26 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 



Did we not love it too? This goodly scene 
Was our ancestral heritage ; our right, 
Our title, from the great Original. 
Here were our Lares, our Penates here ! 
Our bones are mingled with the soil you till ; 
Our implements of warfare and the chase 
Your plows uncover from the rest of years. 
Our spirits note the plowman as he turns 
Up to the sunlight of the white man's day 
The things that once were ours, and hear him say 
This was the Indian's ! and with curious eye 
Inspect it for a moment — then move on 
Without a pang of pity in his breast 
For all the Indian's wrongs ; without a thought 
Save " might makes right,"— the adage of his race. 

Were we not men, and like your selfish selves 
Called the Great Spirit, Father? — brothers all? 
Wild and untutored, — savage, as you say, 
But, for all that, your Father's children, too, 
By Nature nurtured, and to Nature true. 

Where slept the pity that you since have shown 
To your black brother whom you could enslave? 
What blessed spirit from the Good on high 
Prompted your hearts to give them liberty, 
Yet generous mercy to our race deny? 
Did he possess the soil he trod upon? 
Were his such pleasant, goodly scenes as this, 
Its teeming soil, its wealth of food and game? — 
Speak ! was it Christian charity alone, 
Or did the elements political, 
More potent still, combine and underlie 
The glorious act that goes for Mercy's own? 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 



27 



Alas for human goodness ! we had lands, 
And timbered hills, and food-supplying streams, 
And mineral grounds, rich with the precious ores. 
You came, and looked upon, and saw them good. 
Then Envy sowed her seed ; her rank roots grew 
And filled your hearts with covetous desire, 
Born of the power that wars against the Good. — 
Rest for your arms, rest for your marching feet, — 
No rest was yours, till, with a conscience seared 
By "might makes right," we're gone, and you are 
here! 

No sachem of your race who aims to be 
Its mighty chieftain, and none other who 
Desires a seat in your great council lodge, 
Declares his purpose and intent to be 
To see wrong righted ; that his charity, 
Broad like a mantle, wraps all in its folds; 
That at his hands our wasted nations shall 
Receive the honest justice that you boast 
Dwells in your temples reared for her abode. 

No ! such avowal would at once dispel 
His hopes, and strike his aspirations dead. 
His people crave our lands, — those lands will have, 
And still make show of Christian charity : 
Grant us a pittance, that the world may see 
Their generosity ; and still excite 
By studied arts, our tribes to useless strife 
That the same eyes may see how prompt they are 
To plunder and possess in Justice's name. 

A prophet of your nation once has said 
Words that should ope your ears again to hear : — 



28 CONNECTICUT RIVEn REEDS. 

" But I can see another sight 

To which the white man's eyes are blind : 
His race may vanish hence, lilve mine, 

And leave no trace behind, 
Save ruins o'er the country spread, 
And the white stones above the dead." 

The voice is hushed; but still the form is 
there, — 
Mighty King Philip ! Time makes bare to-day 
Fair Truth ; e'en as the day-king brightening. 
Dispels the shrouding and distorting fogs 
That supervene, at times, autumnal frosts. 
Kingly Metacom ! warrior, patriot, sage ! 
Now that thy bones are dust, thy country ours ; 
Now that Time's hand has poured for centuries 
Its Lethean waters o'er the bloody past, 
We can review thy actions and can pass 
Unbiased judgment on thy motives true. 
Maligned as savage, underprized as man, 
Thy soul was with that real greatness rich 
Which stamps the nobleman of Nature's own, 
Distinctive from the misnamed counterfeit. 
Condemned by us because thou didst possess 
Those lofty qualities which we admire 
And glorify, when with us they appear. 

No bard with song-wrought laurels crowned 
thy brow ; 
No orator thy great deeds magnified ; 
No press spread forth to an admiring world 
Thy statesmanship and patriotic worth ; 
No grateful country could reward thy deeds 
With honors high and fame's emblazonry ; — 



CONNECTICUT BITER REEDS. 29 

Nor didst thou covet these. Thy piercing ken 
Read through the darkness of futurity 
The doom so surely waiting for thy race, 
And thy great heart to mighty effort stirred, 
Counting life nothing in Oppression's yoke. 

Rest ! spirit, rest ! 
The sounding aisles of free New England's woods, — 
Her life-blood, gushing from the shaded fonts 
That slaked thy thirst, still trickling from the hills 
With murmured plaint, — and, ceaseless, leading all, 
Yon torrent's voice, deep, solemn, and sublime, 
Thy requiem shall be ! 

The wraith has vanished ! still another form 
Of eager, restless air, in place succeeds. 
Lacking the sachem's pose of dignity. — 
Is it his voice now speaks? or varying airs 
That change the toning numbers of the fall : — 

Behold me. Enterprise! — sprung from the 
Plow, 
The Axe, Loom, Anvil, and the Common School, 
I claim them all as ancestry ; but first 
My filial pride acknowledges the Plow. 

I am the spirit that in early days 
Did build your barges and contrive the ways, 
Obstructions conquering, that Commerce might 
The waters of your river utilize, 
4nd bring the recompense that all derive 
From well-timed industry. I, too, am he 
Who, tiring of the locomotion slow, 
Laid down the iron rails these shores along, 



30 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 



Brought forth the iron horse and harnessed him 
To thunder through your valley with his freights, 
And wake the echoes with his rousing shrieks. 

I, too, am he who laid this mighty work 
At Nature's own suggestion, and have turned 
The tireless energies of this mad tide 
To work for man and his aggrandizement. 

Yonder you see beginnings ; but the end 
Is in thp future far ; when I who speak 
And you who listen long have passed away ; — 
Yea, when the children of your children's child, 
As generations shall in turn succeed, 
Shall hither gather to renew this day, — 
Scarce this sweet spot they'll find, — this cool re- 
treat. 
These verdant pines, this grassy shade they'll see, 
But blocks of brick and stone, and graded streets ; 
Nature displaced by crowned and regnant Art, 
And Trade's confusion dinning in their ears. 

Here, where the fisher stood and speared his 

prey ; 
Here, where the Indian, happy in the wild, 
Thanked the Great Spirit for this paradise, — 
Shall stretch the broad highways from shore to 

shore, 
And din of traflic and its roar shall drown 
The thunder of the falling flood below. 

That vision vanisheth ! What do I see? 
Faces of friends, dear and familiar all. 
Welcome ! thrice welcome to my native haunts, 




■o i ^ J" c 



r«5: -^^ -T^ CO ^ 



%» 'Si 'fc. 






o 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

amenities 

Tliat lighten life's sad burthens, and inspire 
The soul to dwell on something else — beyond. 



TO A WILD ROSE. 

/^ WEET offspring of the solitude ! 
^^ Dost in this lonely spot elude 

The wanton gaze and notice rude 

Of vulgar eyes? 
Hear me, if I on thee intrude, 
Apologize : 

No rival, tender-hearted /a^>, 
Made thy young growth her willing care, 
Nor hid thee when the frosty air 

Spread winter wide ; 
Or marks thee blooming rich and rare 

In flowery pride. 

Deep in the woodland, wild to view, 
Flora, lone-straying, planted you ; 
Mild Vesper wet with gentle dew, 

The teeming earth. 
And Phoebus peeped the foliage through 

To hail thy birth. 

Near thee, in ever watchful mood, 
The partridge trains her little brood ; 
And pussy comes o'er many a rood. 

With dewy feet. 
To mingle with her morning food 
Thy fragrance sweet. 



31 



32 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS, 

Sweet little rose ! thou mindest me 
Of innocence and modesty ; 
Apart the world, and lone, like thee, 

They, too, are raised 
Beneath some cottage-sheltering tree, 

Unknown, nupraised. 

Emblem of worth — (alas, how true !) 
That in retirement, veiled from view, 
Gives to its poor unnoticed few, 

A conscience clean ; 
Then in the spot whereon it grew, 
It dies unseen ! 



LINES 0:N the death of little CLARA. 



r 



was in the summer time, 
And the leaves were in their prime 

And their pride ; 
It was early in the morn, 
And a robin sang forlorn 
When she died. 

You have seen a budding flower 
In some sweet, domestic bower — 

Fair to see ; 
You have seen a lily white, 
Pure, and beauteous, and bright; 

Such was she ! 

You have seen that cherished flower 
In some sad untimely hour 
Leave its tree ; 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

You have seen the lily lost 
Even when you prized it most ; 
So was she ! 

You can see, on looking back 
O'er life's memorable track, 

With a sigh. 
Scenes so sweet they even seem 
Like the fiction of a dream ; 

So can I ! 

As is written in the Word, 

' When the candle of the Lord ' 

O'er you shone ; 
You renew the past awhile, 
As you ponder you would smile ; 

But you groan. 

For, perhaps, a little child 
In its innocence has smiled 

On your knee ; 
Or has hailed you from the door, 
When the toils of day were o'er. 

With its glee. 

Now in vain those little feet 
You may watch to hear, and meet, 

As you come 
With a slow and sober tread. 
For your thoughts are on the dead, 

And their home. 

And, perhaps, on looking back 
O'er life's melancholy track, 
With a sigh, 



33 



34 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

You can tell the sons of mirth 
You are getting weaned from earth ; 
So can I ! 



W 



THE BLUE-BIRD. 

HEN warm rains fall and soft winds sweep 

Away the wintry drift, 
When swollen brooks run down the steep, 

And giay with mist the lift; 
When through the vale the floods out-pour 

And crashing icy floes, 
With swash, and dash, and wild uproar. 

Trend with the melted snows ; 
When all the plain with snow-broth swims ' 

And teams, on half bare road. 
With swinging heads and cordy limbs. 

Drag the resistant load ; — 
A twitter from the tree we hear, 

Some bars of music sweet, 
And gloomy thoughts give place to cheer 

As we the minstrel greet. 

Sweet little harbinger of Spring, 

Green fields, and sunbright days ! 
O, welcome ! with thy azure wing 

And softly warbled lays. 
While other songsters loiter still 

In regions of the sun, 
I bless thy hardy little will 

To tell of Winter done, 
Its dark, cold days and bitter skies, 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 35 

Its wild and gusty nights : — 
Of spring, unfolding to our eyes 
Her mantle of delights. 

The farmer hears thee, and he knows 

Of earth's awaking life ; 
Tells of thy advent as he goes 

Homeward, to " weans and wife ; " 
And eyes grow bright, and smiles steal o'er 

The sober face of care, 
And crowded grows the cottage door 

To catch the vision rare. 
The swart boy in the sugar-bush, 

Who loves his gun to try, 
The crow's discordant croak will hush 

With ' ' murder-aiming " eye ; 
But when thy liquid numbers fall 

On his delighted ear. 
He welcomes thee with answering call, 

Nor harms thee, hovering near. 

Sweet blue-bird, type of winged Hope ! 

When darkness like the tomb 
Begirts earth's pilgrims, and they grope 

In sadness and in gloom ; 
Hope whispers soft a word of cheer 

O'er the dismaying scene, 
Till through the folds of blackness peer 

Bright skies and living green. 



36 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 



ON PLANTING AN ELM TREE. 

LIVE now, for shelter and for shade ! 
And live thou wilt, I trust, 
And flourish, when thj^ planter's laid 
To slumber in the dust. 

Out from the snow^y north blows high 
The bleak, pre-warning gale ; 

And scudding thro' the heavy sky, 
The 'lated wild fowl sail. 

All naked are thy infant limbs, 
Benumbed these hands of mine, 

And hoarsely sing these wintry hymns 
Of summer and " lang syne." 

But all in faith I've digged thy bed, 

And fixed thee in the soil, 
For fancy has thy future read, 

And recompensed my toil. 

I see aloft thy branchy head, 
Thy good-time-coming prime, 

A canopy of verdure spread 
Wide, beautiful, sublime. 

And by the dallying summer air 
Thy breezy harps are played ; 

The warbling birds are sporting there, 
And children in thy shade. 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 37 

Here may the way-worn pause to rest 

When beats the sultry noon ; 
Here come the sleepless care oppress'd, 

Communing with the moon. 

And generations shall arise, 

Live, die, forgotten be, 
While thou art stretching toward the skies 

A time-defying tree. 

So, in the name of God, Amen I 

I give, bequeath, devise 
Thee to those generations, when 

Snccessive they may rise. 



THE OLD POD-AUGER DAYS. 

' saw an aged man at work^ — 
He turned an auger round ; 
"And ever and anon he'd pause, 
And meditate profound. 
Good morning, friend, quoth I to him, — 

Art thinking when to raise ? 
O, no ! said he, I'm thinking on 
The old ' pod-auger days,' 

True, by the hardest then we wrought, 

With little extra aid ; 
But honor's were the things we bought, 

And honor's those we made. 
But now invention stalks abroad. 

Deception dogs her ways ; 



38 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

Things different are from what they were 
In old ' pod-auger days.' 

Then homely was the fare we had, 

And home spun what we wore ; 
Then scarce a niggard pulled the string 

Inside his cabin door. 
Then humbugs didn't fly so thick 

As half the world to haze ; 
That sort of bug was scarcely known 

In old ' pod-auger days.' 

Then men were strong, and woman fair 

Was hearty as the doe ; 
Then few so dreadful ' feeble ' were, 

They couldn't knit and sew ; 
Then girls could sing, and they could work, 

And thrum gridiron lays ; 
That sort of music took the palm 

In old ' pod-auger days.' 

Then men were patriots — rare, indeed, 

An Arnold or a Burr ; 
They loved their country, and in turn 

Were loved and blessed by her. 
Then Franklin, Sherman, Rittenhouse 

Earned well the nation's praise ; 
We've not the Congress that we had 

In old ' pod-auger days.' 

Then, ' slow and certain ' was the word ; 

Now. ' dei'l the hindmost take ; ' 
Then buyers rattled down the cash ; 

Now, words must payment make ; 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 39 

Then, murder-cloing villians soon 

Were decked in hempen bays ; 
We didn't murder in our sleep. 

In old ' pod-au^er days.' 

So wags the world ; — 'tis well enough, 

If Wisdom went by steam ; 
But in my day she used to drive 

A plain old-fashioned team ; 
And Justice with her bandage off 

Can now see choice in ways ; 
She used to sit blind-fold and stern 

In old ' pod auger days.' 



THE RUINED MILL. 

I sat upon the broken wall and cast the line and 
hook 
Below, within the waters of the half-ob- 
structed brook ; 
And looked about, in moody thought, the dwindled 

surface o'er, 
Where spread a lakelet's broad expanse, and deep, 
in days of yore. 

Behind me leaned the ruined mill, in downhill of 

decay ; 
Its timbers bare, and gaping side half-opened to the 

day; 
Its leaky flume and useless wheel all green with 

stagnant slime, 
The water gurgling underneath with melancholy 

chime. 



40 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 



A phebe fearless built lier nest within a leaning 
brace, 

The solitary cheerful thing about the cheerless 
place ; 

And even she appeared to feel — or 'twas my somber 
mood, — 

That poets e'en may overpaint the charms of soli- 
tude. 

I thought on Time's mutations and the changes I 

had seen 
Since the landscape of life's morning to me was 

fresh and green ; — 
" The very fish are changed ! " I cried, and drew a 

shiner out 
Where once I took, with boyish pride, a thirty-two 

ounce trout. 

Then here was business, here was stir, — the bustle 
and the whirl. 

Here came the jolly yeomanry, here came the clown- 
ish churl ; 

Here idlers by the winter fire, with checkers or 
with whist. 

Quite willing waited while the stones were hum- 
ming out the grist. 

Here was the gossip and the wit of all the country 
side ; 

Here small official slates were made, and small offi- 
cials tried ; 

With coming grain and going meal the frequent 
teams were seen ; 

Now, all approaches hitherward are sodded o'er 



CONNECTICUT RIFER REEDS. 41 

Where are the men wlio hither brought the corn to 
make their bread? 

I knew them when a little boy ; — they're sleeping 
with the dead! 

Like grain they're garnered up within some store- 
house of the soul, 

And of the miller long ago hath Death required 
toll. 

So 1 thought on Time's mutations, of schemers and 

their schemes ; 
How very like, indeed, they are to dreamers and 

their dreams; 
And when we contemplate the past, and when we 

dreams resume. 
The self -same lamp that lights the one the other 

doth illume. 



NOCTUKNE. 

WHEN I've seen the little infant 
To bearded manhood grown, 
With cares of life upon him 
And children of his own ; 

When I recollect the sapling 
My boyish eyes did see, 

To every breeze a plaything, — 
Now grown a mighty tree ; 



42 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

When I see the forest monarch 
I well knew in his prime 

Now lying prone, a victim 

To the stayless trend of Time ; 

When I stand and cast about me, 
Like one lost and alone, 

And call for old companions, 
To find they all are gone ; 

Then I feel like one who searches 
In vain the ashes o'er 

To find a spark to kindle 
A hearth that glows no more. 



LINES 

On finding a Dead Young Bird in the Corn-field, while 
Hoeing. 



P 



OOR little bird ! 'tis sad to see 

Thee lying here so sorrily, 

Lost from thy native sheltering tree. 

And leaf -roofed nest. 
Beside this hill of corn shall be 

Thv noteless rest. 

Did wanton school-boy hurl the stone? 
Or murderous villain aim the gun? 
Or, yester evening, when the sun 

Sank down the hill, 
Did the cold rain-rills round tliee run, 

To drencli and cliill? 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 



43 



Now, bright around thee pours the day ; 
The springhig corn-blades waving play, 
And all thy sportive mates are gay 

With tuneful breath. 
O, do they know that here you stay 

Songless in death? 

'Tis thus with selfish man, I know : 
He sees a fellow mortal go. 
And, saving when he feels the blow 

Strike home and near. 
He little heeds the sufierer's woe, 

The mourner's tear. 

Ah, me ! I'd once a birdie sweet, 
"Whose days, like thine, were winged and fleet ! 
The angels came ; her little feet 

Had weary grown, 
And with them to the blest retreat, 

Long since, she's flown ! 



A STORMY NIGHT'S EPISTLE TO "OLD 
KNICK." 

THIS stormy night is just the time 
To spin " Old Knick" a skein of rhyme, 

A sort of homely thrum ; 
The spinning won't be finely done, 
My wheel, once touched, is apt to run 

Hap-hazard, with a hum. 
Still, if will wear this thrum of mine, 



44 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

It easy might be worse ; 
There are, who spin too very fine 
The thread of their discourse. 

They fabric fine appearing stuff, 
The work may all be well enough, 

No knots or kinks therein, 
It shows in market extra nice, 
The buyer merely asks the price, 

And jingles out " the tin." 
But proving, second thought, 'tis said, 

The eyes will open full ; 
He's bought a fine, long pretty thread 

But precious little wool. 

I doubt not, this blockading storm 
Is snowing round your cottage warm, 

As it begirts my own ; 
I doubt not, that this very night. 
All cosy in your sanctum bright. 

You hear it rage and moan. 
I ken your heart; a pensive face 

Tells what to mind is brought. 
And moves your current pen to trace 

The humane, tender thought. 

My cat comes powdered from the byre ; 
(That dog has no more need of fire, 

He perished long ago ;) — 
I ope the door to let puss in : 
Pufi*! comes the blast with gusty din 

And white with drifting snow. 
Avaunt ! and keep the broad outside. 

Wild riders of the storm ! 
No blazing fuel, freely plied, 

Your polar breath can warm ! 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 45 

There pussy in the corner sits, 
And wliile her furry coat emits 

The freshness of the night, 
She looks as " meek as Moses " while 
She perpetrates a feline smile, 

And purrs in sheer delight. 
I love kind mercy to extend 

E'en to a mousing cat ; 
However much thereof we lend, 

We're borrowers, at that. 

Thick frost encrusts the window-panes ; 
The storm I see not, but its strains 

Are heard in awful play : 
The spiteful dash against the glass, 
The grumbled sough, as off they pass. 

Hoarse-humming, far away. 
Where now's that little feathered dot 

Of life, I saw to-day? 
Has .she some canny shelter got? 

Or blown in death away? 

She flitted, cheeping, round my head, 
At morn, as I the cattle fed ; 

Her voice was low and sweet. 
As if she craved my garnered store ; 
Poor thing! but for thy coyness, more 

Thou'd hadst than thou could'st eat, 
Or did she with prophetic ken 

This awful night foresee, 
And call for Summer back again, 

And her infolding tree? 

Scarce bigger than my thumb was she ; 
A crumb a loaf for her would be ; 
She flitted and was gone ; 



46 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

Yet that bird haunts my thoughts to-night 
May He, who notes the sparrows, light 

For her a cheerful dawn ! 
And thus all breathing life is spent, 

See-sawing, like the boy; 
See., ' winter of our discontent ; ' 

Saw, summer-time of joy. 

The clock has threatened to strike ten : 
Retiring hour for honest men ; 

For rogues an o'er late one ; 
I'll slip the band from off the wheel, 
Tell off the thread upon the reel. 

And even call it done. 
And quite a lusty skein I've got ! 

You think so — don't you — sort o'? — 
If forty threads compose a " knot," 

Here's two knots and a quarter. 



THE THRESHER AND THE RAT. 

9 ^T~i WAS when the bridge the frost had made, 
I Had robbed the Charon of his trade ; 
-^ When slipping sleighs and jingling bells 
Supplied the place of rattling wheels ; 
When sidelong looked the southing sun, 
And labor out-of-door was done, — 
A farmer to his barn did go 
To thresh, as he was wont to do. 

He was as strong a man as ever 
Beneath the bowlders thrust a lever ; 
As brave a man as aught of those 
Who faced on Bunker-Hill their foes ; 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

As honest as the man who sweat 
For forty years to pay a debt ; 
A patriot, and no truer one 
Tecumseh was, or Washington ; — 
He was, to make description short, 
A yeoman of the model sort. 

The wheaten sheaves he spread and pounded ; 

The echoes to his flail resounded ; 

The ox looked wise at what he saw, 

And tasted daintily the straw ; 

The fowls came craking round the door 

For seeds that flew beyond the floor ; 

And loudly in the thresher's ear 

Sang old time-keeping Chanticleer. 

But moodily the thresher wrought, 

And thinking, (for he must have thought,) 

While he the bearded grain was threshing. 

Of men who needed such a dressing. 

The seventh shock he'd just begun — 
(He chalked the number, one by one,) — 
But scarce had he a dozen thumped, 
When forth a rat, confounded, jumped ! 

THRESHER. 

Stop thief ! here, Jowler, come and shake him ! 
Here, pussy, pussy? quick, and take him ! 
These blasted rats have torn my sheaves, 
Like old ' Aunt Lizzy's' bible leaves. 
No candidate, in search of Sunday, 
E'er owned a horse one-half so hungry. 

His words with speech inspired the rat ; 
He turned, and on his haunches sat: 



47 



48 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

RAT. 

I pray thee, goodman, stop thy grieving 
That I, poor body, get a living ; 
And, rather pity, when I tell ye 
You've pounded me almost to jelly. 

THRESHER. 

High words, indeed, for rats to speak ! 
I thought at most they could but squeak. 
You must be leader of the throng 
That's troubled me so much and long. 
By night I hear you, on my bed, 
Chase one another overhead, 
And rattle up and down the wall 
Some plunder to your dens to haul ; 
And in my barns the live-long day. 
You waste my precious grain away. 



You've little charity, I see, 

For such a needy wretch as me. 

I taste your grain a little, true ; 

'Tis quite as good for me as you ; 

And it's the fashion now-days, neighbor. 

To get a living without labor. 

THRESHER. 

You have more brass, conceited knave. 
In your old phiz, than thieves should have; 
Think you I'll harvest corn and wheat 
For miserable rats to eat ? 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 49 

Look at the ant, that toils and strives, 
And on her own exertion lives ; 
Look at the bees, wee, busy things. 
That make a food that's fit for kings ; 
Look at your cousin in the bushes. 
He is content with grass and rushes ; 
The prowling fox, that now and then 
Comes to my yard and steals a hen, 
Would say you were of rogues the chief ; 
The skunk would spurn you for a thief. 



Look here ! if preaching is your object, 

I'll show you more important subject : 

!Now did it never strike your mind 

That there are rats among mankind? 

The rat of human-kind, you see. 

In form is different from me ; 

He stands six feet, or less, or more ; 

Walks on two feet, instead of four ; 

Wears a fine coat with pendent tail, 

yi\t\i pockets in it, — where I fail; 

Has hands whose single grasp can seize 

More than my twelve-month's bread and cheese : 

And, to crown all, his Maker kind. 

Gives him a shrewd, discerning mind, 

All his base life on earth to find 

Bye-paths through which to seek his leaven, 

And dream of rat-holes, too, in heaven. 

Now, sir, your eyes are oped, I wis ; 

' Look on that picture, and on this ; ' 

And, on the whole, you must opine 

His breed is worse, by far, than mine. 



50 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS, 

THRESHER. 

All true, old rat! thou speakest sense? 
Fill ouce thy maw, and get thee hence ; 
For since thy wit has cooled my choler, 
I would not harm thee for a dollar. 

RAT. 

Nay, goodman, hear me till I've done, 
Then, if you're willing, I will run. 
Some human rats, of whom I speak. 
The garner of your nation seek ; 
They talk about the public good, 
As those who gull the public should ; 
Line well their nest with ' Biddle's rags,' 
Filch from the people's money-bags. 
And then, to hide the thefts they've made, 
With law and logic make parade ; 
Call a sham court : put in the chair 
Some ancient rat of presence rare, 
Whose views of justice and intention 
Are past all common comprehension ; 
Whose verdicts, ninety in a hundred, 
Are to the public never rendered. 
Or some old rat, benignly feeling, 
To give the rest more chance for stealing, 
Slips quietly among some cargo 
That puts to sea without embargo, 
And on a foreign shore arrives, 
With spoils to last him while he lives. 

In short, they live so free and easy 
That thoughts of envy often tease me. 
For when, like me, in theft detected. 
They sneak aside and live respected, 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. ^^ 



I would proceed and tell you more : 
How at the sanctuary door 
These precious rats sometimes go in 
With pious horror feigned for sin, 
And there for hapless sinners groan, 
Whom they've dissected to the bone. 

I could dilate for full an hour 

To tell you how they get at power ; 

How, scrambling o'er the backs of fools, 

They use the willing dupes for tools, 

And dig their way through virtuous worth 

And trample genius in the earth. 

Till puffed Avith spoils and damned with fame, 

True rats in every thing but name. 

I'd tell you all but this must do, 
For I perceive I'm hindering you; 
But when at night you hear us run, 
Think of the gang at Washington, 
And rack your poAvers of invention 
For traps to hold them in detention ; 
And when for us you'd call the cat, 
Call Sootie for the human rat. 

The rat, no more with speech inspired, 
Now turned, and suddenly retired. 



52 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 



THE SHAD-FISHERS. 

Introductory Note — Turners' s Falls are situated on 
Connecticut River, between the towns of Gill and Moutaffue, 
in Franklin county, Massachusetts. The scenery at the falls 
is beautiful, and delightfully varied, and the Fall itself is one 
of the most remarkable in New Enj2;land ; and at high water 
is indeed a Niagara in minature. The locality, which, in ad- 
dition to the natural attractions, is storied in Indian memo- 
ries, is becoming quite a place of resort for ruralists from 
town, and tourists in search of health and sight seeing. It 
was here that the poor " orphans of Providence " founded one 
of their few abiding homes, on account of the inexhaustible 
supply of the finest fish, for their subsistence. It was here 
that Capt. TURNBR cut them olf in his memorable fight, May 
18th, 1676. Within the circuit of three-fourths of a mile, on 
the Gill side, are found those most remarkable specimens of 
fossil foot-prints in the sand-stone, so noted in the geological 
world. 

To those uninformed on the subject, the multitude of fish 
represented in the text may seem an apochryphal accouuc, 
but it is nevertheless no exaggeration —no fiction. In all 
the " Old Thirteen." perhaps not in all the United States 
Territory, has there been known such a successful fisliing 
place as was Turner's Falls in the olden time. Witness me! 
shades of Elisha Tiloen, Josiah Burnham, James 
Ewers. Ezekiel Foster, Phillip Ballard, and all the 
old 

•' Fishers of shad and not of men! " 



A 



LL in the merry montli of May, 
When snowy shad-trees blossomed gay, 
To tell the fisherman the time, 
When tish were plentiful and prime : 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

All in the merry month of May, 
Where Turner's pouring waters play, 
And lash, and dash, and roar, and bray, 
Were wont to gather, there and then. 
All in the merry month of May, 
Back many years on Time's highway, 
Fishers of shad, and not of men. 
Upon old-time "Election Day," 
I've heard gray -headed worthies say. 
Not only fishermen, so wet 
With sweeping seine and scooping net. 
But other folk would muster there 
As now they gather at a Fair. 

From all the region round about 

They came, the gentleman and lout ; 

The yeoman, whose spring-work was done, 

Resolved to have one day of fun ; 

The peddler with his gew-gaws flue. 

And ballads, dog'rel, not divine; 

The bully of the country-side 

In all the swell of hero pride ; 

The gamester who was skilled to know 

The science of a lucky throw ; 

The loafer, whose " chief end of man," 

Was, Go it, cripples ! while you can ; 

The verdant youth from hill side green, 

Come down to see what might be seen. 

And treat the doUe whom he led 

To penny-cake and gingerbread ; — 

A motley crowd of beings, wishing 

To see each other and the fishing. 

Now, ye who read these truthful rhymes, 
And live in these noise-making times, 



53 



54 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

When dams, and mills, and paddle-boats 
And other craft the water floats. 
With all their din and clickmaclaver 
Scare off the red-fins from the river, — 
Can scarce conceive what schools of shad 
Made our old fisher fathers glad. 
Their numbers did exceed almost 
The rapt one's countless heavenly host. 
Upon the bottom of the river 
Their fins like leaves were seen to quiver : 
And leaping salmon, tho'less plenty, 
Were grand as royal One-and-Twenty. 
A single haul would bring ashore 
Some forty, fifty, sixty score; 
The fisher who the scoop would duck 
Would get St. Peter's sacred luck ; 
A few hours' toil, and you might heed 
Shad piled like hay-cocks in a mead. 

Then, some facetious ones have said 

That folk so much on fish were fed, 

One scarce could draw his shirt o'er head ; 

His skin with fish bones bristly grew, 

And held the garment as he drew. 

They must have been most scaly persons, 

Themselves, to venture such assertions ; 

And all of us would now be glad 

To " make no bones," had we the shad. 

Ye who with rod, and line, and hook. 
Stray luckless by some well-tried brook. 
And feel with joy constrained to shout 
When you have hooked a span-long trout ; 
And deem a dozen will repay 
Your drenching on a drizzling day ; — 



CONNECTICUT EIFER REEDS. ^^ 

Ye who will sit beside the stream 
Which gives my piscatory theme, 
Perched like a crane on flood-wood roots, 
A Job in patience in your boots, 
But unlike Jonah fain to quibble 
About some mighty, whale-like nibble. 
When all your spoils at last are seen 
A fly-blown string of shiners mean ; 
Waiting for luck there was no need of 
In these departed days you read of ; 
Fishing was then not only sport, 
But labor of the earnest sort. 

Those fishers were a race of men 

Whose like we ne'er shall see again. 

Creative Wisdom seems to give 

Men for the times in which they live. 

Born in the days of " hoddin gray " 

When Fashion's walks were far away ; 

Bred in the days when hardest toil 

Was needful to subdue the soil ; 

Their school-house was the broad, green sod ; 

Experience with her rule and rod 

Taught them the lessons Science spurned ; 

But Science claims not all the learned. — 

Strong, brave and forceful ; earnest hearted ; 

With them the rope drew, or 'twas parted ; 

Wb'en unofi'ended, very clever ; 

But wrath aroused, was wrath forever. 

They loved their day and generation ; 

They loved the creature, and creation ; 

They loved life's cheer, they bore its burden, 

And all have traveled over Jordan, 

And low away at rest were laid 

Long while before my pen was made. 



56 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

All in the merry month of May, 
Where Turner's pouring waters play, 
The scenes of old "Election day," — 
Oft heard of scenes — crowd fast upon me : 
There mystified and mystic Johnny * 
Was seen with hazel rod in hand, 
His stature small, his bearing grand, 
Revealing to a gaping crowd 
In piping tones of treble loud 
Hints of the treasures he had found. 
The place, the what, a secret sound; 
That all his care was just to heed them, 
For reason that he didn't need them, — 
Forever poor with all his riches ; 
Forever plagued by sport of witches 
Who filled with various pains his body, 
To ease which kept him soaked with toddy ; 
And fastened tightly round his head 
Imaginary bands of lead ; 
When had he told t'was filled inside, 
Few such a fact might have denied. 

There she who bore a witch's fame ; f 
(The rhyme thereof were truer name ;) 
Misguided and misguiding creature, 
With virtue weak, and strong ill-nature. 
Among the crowd she reeled and staggered, 
Or with the bottle-drainers swaggered, 
Till overcome beside the fence 
With aught but sleep of innocence. 

* N@te — John B n, a noted man in the region, a cotem- 

porary of the shad fishers. He was a singular •• genins," con - 
tinually experimenting with divining rods, and charms, in 
search of mineral wealth, Kidd's money, etc. His hinted 
success was great, altho' the oocular demonstrations were 
never forth-coming. 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 



57 



There, hidden by a noisy ring, 
Two wrestlers-vgrappled for a fling : 
The one a lithe and nimble fellow, 
And pursy one with human tallow. 
Now swaying round, their feet displaying. 
And now the sudden twitch essaying ; 
Each looked as if he apprehended 
An empire's fate on him depended ; 
While frequent shots of country wit 
Stung this or that, as aimed to hit. 
Some on the grand result were betting ; 
They heard wh o at arm's-length were sweat- 
ing, 
As wages never made them sweat, 
And fiercer strove each for the bet ; 
The stout man on his strength relying, 
The lean one, nimble tripping trying ; 
The stout man looking flushed and blown. 
Unmindful of the buttons gone ; — 
His waistband loosened by the tripping, 
Low " by the stern" was slowly slipping, — 
The lean man looking pale and solemn. 
Bent like a bow his spinal column ; 
His feet, whene'er the other twitched, 
With funny, sideway motion hitched, 
Just like a strutting Bantam when 
Pie shuffles sidelong round a hen. 

When, lo ! at last, when nearly gone, 

The patience of each looker-on, 

The wrestle in a flurry ended ; 

Legs, feet, and arms were twirling blended. 

t Note — Another notable character of the place aiid the 
times, with whom went down the fag-end of the Salem witch- 
craft Buperstition in the falls region. 



58 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

Who was prevailing there was doubt, 
Till rose at length the boisterous shout 
That drowned the roaring waters' tone ; 
The shout proclaimed the lubber thrown ; 
While with an air that seemed to say, 
♦' Just tell that to posterity ! " 
The pallid hero strode away. 

So while these scenes were going on, 

The scoops were plied, the nets were drawn. 

Swift shot the row-boat from the shore, 

As lively played the flashing oar ; 

And as it darted circling round. 

By skillful hands the net was drown'd. 

Next came the pulling, long and strong, 

Like sailors warping ship along ; 

The low, but animated cheer, — 

(Fishers aye deem the flsh will hear ;) 

Till landward as the meshes drew, 

The prisoned fish appeared to view. 

And now grown conscious of their trouble, 

Made the f enc'd water boil and bubble. 

Just so, 'tis said, mankind will let 
Themselves be snared in evil net, 
And make no effort for exemption 
Till in their case there's no redemption. 
Next, by the father of all flsh ! 
To have been there you well might wish. 
When, for some two-and-seventy pence, 
You might have drawn a cart-load thence 
Of just the flnest shad that ever 
Swam this, or any other river. 

Shrouded in spray, our side the flood, 
A ragged, rocky island stood ; 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 59 

And still it stands, and stand it may 

Till Advent madmen bring the day. 

Just oft this island, — Jack would say, 

♦' Off thie port bow " a little way, — 

Fixed in sub-aqueous ledges fast, 

Tlie dizzy waters whirling past, 

Was seen a rock, since drowned from sight 

By the curb'd water's refluent height, 

This rock was fisher Burnham's claim ; 

Floods may not wash away his name, 

Tho' rock and master both went under, 

The rock out there; he — where? I wonder. 

Time's changes have again laid bare 

The rock, but there's no fisher there ! 

There Burnham with his hardy few, 

A daring, danger-loving crew. 

Were wont their long-armed scoops to ply 

For the fine salmon springing by ; — 

Those Salmon ! of all fish most precious ; 

When dished, of flavor most delicious. 

Ah, gray -haired dames of other days ! 

How often have I heard you praise. 

As thought restored, those princely fish, 

And tell the serving of the dish ! 

Yonr language, truthful, apt, and glowing. 

As if you told what jou were knowing, 

So plain before my eyes has placed it, 

That I, " by taking thought," could taste it I 

But that grim King whom all men fear, 
Whose court is everywhere, was here : 
A treacherous slip ; a sudden shock 
While standing on the slippery rock ; 



60 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

The snapping of an oar in twain ; 

Too mucli of extrait de la grain, 

Would " turn the tables" and the dishes, 

And give the fisher to the fishes. 

A few, whom nothing could appall, 

Braved the wild terrors of the fall : 

'Twas '* old Elisha," going o'er, — 

A namesake of the seer of yore. 

But f or a " mantle " had, I'm thinking, 

A wretched habit of hard drinking — 

Who shouted *' Gallows ! claim your right ! " 

Just as he vanished down the height ; 

And altho' drown'd awhile from view 

Where the foam broke and spoon-drift flew, 

By some strange chance the whirls he passed, 

And came out safe below at last, 

Better confirmed in local fame 

Than was the gallows of its claim. 

And there was one, a fisher bold, 

Of whom an " ower true tale " is told, 

How vengeful anger 'gainst a foe 

Led both where none would dare to go, 

• ' Lord ! what is man " when anger makes him 

Reckless, and reason cool forsakes him? 

Spirits of Wine, of Love, of Hate, — 

How all alike intoxicate. 

And prompt to deeds of daring high 

The calm, cold-blooded never try ! 

One day this fisher was afloat 
With him he hated, in a boat, — 
A neighbor who had done him wrong, 
And he had harbored vengeance long. 



CONNECTICUT RIVEll REEDS. 



61 



The neighbor rowed, the other steered, 
When sudden toward the fall they sheered, 
The rower, noticing the veering, 
Inquired in terror, " Whither steering ! " 
" Straight o'er the fall with you to hell. 
Unless you'll crave my pardon well ! 
Down on your knees ! — a moment lost 
And God have mercy on your ghost ! " 
The frighted man forgiveness craved 
At their last moment to be saved ! 
Their course was changed, the oars wei 

plied ; 
Swift drew th' accelerating tide ; 
Long was the struggle, and appalling. 
Between man's strength and water falling ; 
The victor and the vanquished, too. 
Both did the utmost they could do ; 
The ashen blades made furious strife, — 
O, it was rowing for dear life ! 
The boat in spite of all their rowing, 
Kept slowly, surely, downward going; 
Then hung, as if 'twere anchored fast; 
Then, inch — by — inch, it crawled at last 
Slow upward out of danger's path. 
Thankful was one : appeased one's wrath ; 
And when anon they reached the shore. 
They joined hands, friends forever more. 



Shall I digress and tell the tale 
Of Lucy, " Lily of the Vale," 
And Luman. who upon the river? 
For manly feats a match had never? 
Then ye who read my running diction, 
May call it truth veneered with fiction. 



62 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

Lucy was lovely, modest, mild ; 
Liimau was headstrong, brave, and wild. 
Lucy was sober-minded, steady ; 
Lumau was ever '* rough and ready ; " 
But by that charm, that curious feature, 
You'll often see in human nature, 
Which, so to speak, in bonds of love 
Unites the eagle with the dove, — 
The two did in each other see 
Perfection of humanity ; 
And bound in Hymen's silken tether 
Essayed the march of life together. 

There's many a march that's short and 

pleasant. 
Both to the soldier and the peasant, 
That ends in fierce and sudden strife 
Or quick extinguishment of life. 
In war, in peace, in arms, at rest. 
Who knows if he be doomed, or blest? 

A twelve-month passed in happiness ; 

Twelve fleeting moons of wedded bliss. 

Their cottage nigh the water stood; 

Before it, ran the gleaming flood ; 

Behind it, pines, dark-green and high, 

Wrought ' ' conic sections " on the sky. 

A morning-glory at the door 

Was trained to climb the clapboards o'er ; 

Beside it spread a garden neat 

Where quaint, old-fashioned pansies sweet 

Showed pretty Lucy's willing care, 

And painted peaceful gladness there. 

Here Luman ploughed his farm and planted ; 

Or lent a helping hand when wanted 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 



63 



In any deed requiring skill, 

A strong arm, and a ready -will ; 

And, well acquainted with the flood, 

Oft at the helm as pilot stood, 

And steered the batteaux of the stranger 

Through channels wild and blind with danger. 

Each social scene, each husking-bee, 

The first and foremost aye was he ; 

At raisings, readiest and spryest, 

Could lift the most, and climb the highest ; 

And though among his fellows, rude. 

To Lucy ever kind and good. 

The charm that first to her did win him, 

Sufficed to tame the wildness in him. 

Such were the twain, and such their home. 
One may to the conclusion come. 
If e'er were happy, man and woman, 
They were our Lucy and her Luman. 

'Twas early dawn, the last of May; 

The birds were waking up the day ; 

The robin poured his dulcet strain, 

The blue-bird warbled home again, 

While chiming in were heard to clink 

The key notes of the bob-o-link ; 

And pearls hung thick on every spray, — 

Night's parting offering to the day. 

When Lucy, starting with affright, 

Waked from her visions of the night ; 

Her mind full of foreboding fears ; 

Her wonted smile displaced by tears. 

Her vision seemed a solemn warning. 

And gloomed the brightness of the morning 



64 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

" O, Luraan ! do not fish to-day ! 
Stay from yon dismal falls away ! 
Their sound my spirit fills with gloom, 
Like warning voices from the tomb. 
I dreamed that on the shore I stood, 
And saw you drowning in the flood ; 
Nor was it wholly like a dream, 
So strangely real did it seem. 
^T was death, all painfully exact! 
May God in mercy spare the fact ! " 
Poor Luman heard, but heeded not; 
But laughing, left his pleasant cot. 
With promise early to return. 
That she to disregard might learn 
Such dreams and superstitious fears ; — 
But Lucy smiled adieu through tears. 

The day wore on ; the day declined. 
Lucy was oft in Luman's mind, 
And to his comrades on the stream 
Made frequent mention of her dream ; 
While they as oft remarked a shade 
Of sadness o'er his features played, — 
That sort of harbingei ideal. 
Foreshadow of the gloomy real. 

" See, boys ! there winks the sleepy sun ! 
Just one throw more, and I have done. 
Lucy is watching at the door. 
Anxious to hear my homeward oar; — 
Now for a salmon for a crowner, 
A real eight-and-twenty pounder ! " 

He spoke ; and through the channel swift 
Swept the long scoop, and tugged to lift. 



CONNECTICUT JilFER REEDS. 



65 



Its weight snapped short the treacherous 

wood, 
And plunged hnn headlong in the flood. 
Then rose a cry of wild despair 
From those who could not aid him there ! 
Swept in an instant from the rock, 
He rose, and rallying from the shock, 
Struck boldly out for life's dear sake, 
And swam, the island point to make. 
O, 'twas an awful sight to see 
The brave heart struggling manfully ! 
The boldest fisher held his breath 
Those moments short 'twixt life and death ; 
And each with fixed, unblinking eye, 
Looked on to see him live, or — die. 
Alas ! that it should prove the last ! 
The maddened waters bore him past 
The island point, and down the steep ; 
With them he took the wildering leap ; 
The whirls, more dreadful, caught their prey. 
And swept him round in dizzy play ; 
Till as the vortex wild he neared. 
Its force upright the victim reared, 
And he, all conscious to the last, 
Despite the terrors closing fast, 
Waved with his hand a sad adieu. 
And sank the hissing helix through ! 



On shore was running to and fro ; 
The fishers' boats put off" below, 
And to the middle hour of night 
Their torches gleamed with lurid light ; 
Now here, now there, they, seeking, steered: 
But Luman never more appeared. 



66 



OONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

I may not, cannot paint her grief 
Whose unfeigned part was mourner chief ; 
But with a song wUl end the tale, 
And to the dwellers in the Vale 
Commend the air called *' Lily Dale." 



THE SONG. 



9^T~^"WAS the last of May, and the bright spring 

I ^^^ 

-^ Was wearin g into June, 

And the spray waved light with its blossoms bright, 
And the birds were all in tune. 

0, Lucy r poor Lucy ! " Lily of the Vale ! " 
What a pity it should be 
Such a mournful day to thee ! 

For thy fate shall the sad harp wail. 



By the pleasant shore, never, nevermore 
Could joy for thee be found. 

For its grave was made where the torrent played 
The death song of the drowned. 

O, Lucy ! poor Lucy ! thy grief who'll chide? 
For thy bosom grew as cold 
As the river-flood that roll'd 

To the deep, with thy love and thy pride. 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 67 

nz. 

Oft at stilly night, when the stars were bright 

And the moon had sunk away, 
Could the boatman hear music soft and clear, 

And wild as a banshee's lay. 
Voice of Lucy ! poor Lucy ! life's light had fled ; 

By the shore she used to stray, 

And the melancholy lay 
Was her plaintive lament for the dead. 



rv. 



Ere the shad-trees gay bloomed again in May, 

Poor Lucy passed the test ; 
And they dug her grave where the pine trees wave 

And whisper o'er her rest. 
O, Lucy ! poor Lucy ! hopeful we feel 

That you dried the bitter tear 

Of your tribulation here 
In the beautiful *' land o' the leal." 

" Change " is the word we write on all : 
And change is writen at the Fall ; 
For man with mighty beams of wood 
Has tamed old Turner's tumbling flood ; 
And where was once a furious race 
Of torrents down a rocky place, 
Where madness fretted into suds 
The rushing, roaring, raving floods, 
The sheet unbroken now descends, — 
The mill-dam with the torrent blends. 
No more those dreadful whirls below, 
Where once 'twas death for man to go ; 



68 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

Where sticks which one might rightly call 
Masts for the stately " Admiral," 
Were turned and withed about like willows, 
Till sucked beneath the twisting billows. 

The fisher's fire is out ashore ; 

The bellying seine is drawn no more ; 

No more appears, when hauled to land, 

The silver winrow on the sand ; 

No more at drowning death they mock 

On Burnham's danger-girted rock, 

Where once the salmon fine were found 

That kicked the beam at thirty pound ; 

No more the merry May-days bring 

The jolly old-time gathering ; 

For all is changed ; old scenes are past, 

And fading from man's memory fast. 

Since Art and Commerce rule our river. 
Gone are our finny stores forever ; 
Untrammel'd Nature brings no more 
This bounty to our storied shore. 
In vain ye look, ye watchful wishers ! 
Gone, and for aye, are fish and fishers ! 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS, 



69 



A NIGHT IN A COUNTRY INN. 

'« Ay free aff-han' your story tell." 

IT was drip, drip, all day, very well I remember, 
Back along in the forties, and month of Novem- 
ber, 
The highways were heavy, ray nag worn and weary, 
The scenery blinked at most dismally dreary. 
For the Green Mountain range, to my grim contem- 
plation, 
Seemed the fag-end of all out-of-doors and crea- 
tion. 

For hours not a soul had I seen on my way. 
If 'twere ever man-haunted, it wasn't that day ; 
And with the exception, in one or two cases, 
Of rain-shedding hovels in out of way places. 
With a phiz at the panes like to that of a woman, 
I had counted myself there the only thing human. 
Tho' the " hills were a thousand," my vision could 

scan, 
The Lord had no ' cattle ' there, neither had man ; 
Unless I except one forlorn looking cow. 
That man must have owned, — not the Lord, any 

how. 
As she stood by the side of a ramshackle shed, 
Her feet in a half -bushel measure could tread ; 
Her caudal curl'd under her ribs and her bones, 
As plain to be seen as the big bowlder stones, 



70 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

With a sort of hysterical grin on her face, 
That moved me to laughter, tho' sad was my case ; 
That face was a tableau, most striking, thought I, 
Of Job's wife's, when she told him to " curse God 
and die ! " 



Down a gorge led my road, and my horse carried 
me 
On a path that the mid summer sun couldn't see, 
For the hemlocks so shady, so solemn, so thick ; 
And night then came down ' like a thousand of 

brick.' 
I mean it fell heavy and dead, like a log ; 
The rain holding up for a down-falling fog, — 
Such a fog ! — Metaphysics ! no scholar of thine 
Was ever more /wisrtfied, reader of mine. 

My horse, in the cloud, hung his head and crawled 

down; 
I thinking if Tartarus bottomed the town. 
Could only imagine what Ms thoughts could be, — 
His progress was more than his master could see. 
I could hear his feet fall, and could feel a slight 

jog, 
But it seemed like a treadmill revolved in the fog, 
Or more like a horse-boat a-f errying o'er, 
For a swelled mountain stream tilled my ears with 

its roar ; 
And Fancy began my location to fix : 
Old Charon a horse-boat over the styx. 
Perhaps "Pomp " was thinking, if horses e'er think, 
His master knew best where was provant and drink, 
And trusted his rider's superior skill. 
As men often trust to a demagogue's will, 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 71 

And think that their leader knows what he's about, 
When his course is too blind for their eyes to make 
out. 

An hour, more or less, of monotonous tread. 
Horse turned a right angle, I lifted my head. 
And high in the air hung a beacon of light, 
Thrice large as old Jupiter on a clear night, 
But whether of heaven or earth, I knew not, 
Till Pomp pricked his ears and broke into a trot, 
And with three minutes trotting, mayhap little 

more. 
Brought me up to the " Green Mountain Coffee 

House " door. 

Who wouldn't rejoice, after journey like mine, 
To get where his features could soften and shine? 
Tho' rough be his welcome, — his company be 
Bar-room haunting idlers, of every degree, 
He knows he can learn, if he isn't a fool. 
Something new in each class of humanity's school. 

The host I judged Dutch, or of Dutch-land de- 
scent. 

For he smoked when he sat, and he smoked when 

he went ; 
Descended, perhaps, from some lofty old Van, 
But shook- down and dumpy descended the man, 
Shut into himself like a telescope slide, 
And longitude covered by latitude wide. 
Kind-hearted he seemed, and appeared to aspire 
To make his guests happy, and keep a good fire. 
That fire ! it was one of the old-fashioned kind, 
Like those in the back-wooded country we find ; 
By those that were lit by our sires on the liearth, 
The focus of comfort, good cheer and of mirth. 



72 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

That fire as it flickered and blazed up the flue, 
Lit scenes that Will Mount with his easel should 

view ; 
For the rain of the day and the night's foggy- 
weather 
Set the " birds of a feather "to flocking together. 
The wit of the hamlet, o'er lazy for work ; 
The rough mountain hind talked of taters and 

pork ; 
The blacksmith talked learned in things of his line ; 
The miller, all " tight " as a hard knot in twine ; 
The doctor, who managed, by hook or by crook, 
To be pretty well ''smashed," and yet dignified 

look; 
The greenliorn as gawky as gawky could be, — 
Not green as he thought, but oh ! verdant was he ; 
And a certain old fellow they called " Uncle Mose," 
Very queer in his countenance, queer in his clothes, 
Who sat in one corner, his feet on the jamb, 
And listened to all, but kept mum as a clam. 
A hot iron poker lay red in the coals, 
Suggestive of flip and of rollicking souls, 
And I made up my mind by an inference fair, 
That the law made in Maine never troubled them 
there. 

Well settled among them, I listened to each ; . 
The question, the answer, the jest, or the speech. 
Till the greenhorn, whose "organ of language" 

was great. 
Led out by one posted, began to narrate 
His travels, perhaps for the fiftieth time, 
But new to the stranger who jotted in rhyme. 

Now, man may be green, like myself, I opine. 
And yet not exhibit its every sign ; 



CONNECTICUT RI VER REEDS. 73 

But if the great showman this " species " could get, 
The tide of his fortunes might flood again yet. 
His figure was outre; his making-up wrong; 
His body quite short, and his legs very long. 
Loose-jointed and crooked ; in fine he seem'd made 
Of remnants, left o'er from the man-making trade. 
With eyes like a frog's, near the top of his skull. 
The color of pewter, and that very dull, 
They fix'd upon this and on that with a stare. 
His jaw dropping down with the vacantest air; 
In short, he was just, both in looks and condition. 
Illustrated verdure, a live definition ! 
His voice was a sort of asthmatical jet. 
The blurt and the wheeze of a crack'd clarionet. 
Imagine, O reader, the looks of the ''cretur," 
While I shall attempt his narration in metre : — 



THE GREENHORN'S ACCOUNT OF HIS VISIT TO 
THE CITY. 

YOU'VE heard 'em tell of " walks in 
life"? 
horn com- Well, 1 have heard 'em too ; 
mences his ^^^ ^^^ greatest walk I ever had 
Btory in a ^ ^ ^,,, 

scientific ^ g'^^^ss 1 11 tell to yon ; 
manner. About it you may wish to hear. 
Because it's awful true. 

I went the city once to see, 
Never had ^'^ heard so much about 
been an (A dozen miles from home before 
extensive I never had been out) ; 
traveller, j ^^^^.^ ^ ^^.^ ^^ ^^^ sheep's gray. 

And cow-hides thick and stout. 



74 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 



How he 
happened 



to town. 



You see, that year my dad and I 
Rais'd '■'• notions " more'n a plenty, 

And he had promised me a share, 
to go. 'Cause I was one-and-twenty ; 

So he to market with a load 
Out to North Elver sent me. 

I hitch'd old Dobbin to a post, 
Nigh where I'd stopped to trade. 
How he get ^^^ ^^^^^ aboard a steamboat there 
To see how it was made. 

First thing I knew, we were half-way 
To York, the captain said. 

I felt a little down at first, 
Till we the town could spj'' ; 
Deter- My pockets, tho', were full of rocks 
That I'd been laying by ; 
Methought, since most young fellows 
" train," 
So now for once will I. 

Up what they called Broadway I 
walked ; — 
(A fellow told me 'twas. 
Sagely ex- But I have reason now to think 
poses a lie. He lied to me, because 

It wasn't wider than the lane 
That leads to miller Shaw's.) 

About the third man that I met 
A gold watch offered me ; 
Buys a j^ ^^^^g r^ splendid looking thing 
gold watch. . T Tj 

^ As ever I did see ; 

I gave him for't my silver watch, 
And dollars thirty-three. 



mines 
" go it. 



CONNECTICUT EI [ ER MEEDS. lb 

I felt, as you may well suppose, 
Finda that Elated with my trade, 
all is not Till afterwards a jeweller 
^^^!^.... !'^^^ A little reek'ning made, 

And called a bushel of them worth 
Less mouey than I paid. 



shines. 



A crowd was rushing up and down, 
Some meetings sure were nigh ; 
Acts very And so I thought I'd wait until 
discreetly. r^YiQ " heft " of them got by ; 

And thro' a w indow look at prints 
That just then struck my eye. 

I stood the pictures viewing there 
But don't For half an hour or more, 
accomplish But faith! the crowd was just as 
hia object. great. 

Or greater than before ; 
And some that pushed and jostled me, 
About a greenhorn swore. 

Well, on I went ; but soon perceived 
Makes an My coat behind felt queer, 
alarming And on examination found 
discovery. ,rp^^^g ^^^ ^^^ u gji^k and clear ! " 
Thinks I, am I a-dreaming now. 
Or what means all this 'ere ? 

You see, my pocket-book was gone, 
Sundry And '' bran'-new " handkerchief, 
valuables And half a card of gingerbread, 
missing. ^jj^j ^ij^ ,^ig jj^y hQMat, — 

For now I've reason so to think, — 
Were taken by a thief. 



76 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

Thinks I, I'll cross to t'other side, 
The coast there looks more clear ; 
Meets with A carriage struck my pantaloons, 
a slight dis- ^j^j tore them in the rear ; 

^^'^^'* I said that half the road was mine, — 
The driver didn't hear. 

Well, soon I met a lady fine, — 

She must have been a belle, — 
Ts SiCCO steel 
by an un- ^^® smiled, and spoke to me, and seemed 

known fair. To know me very well ; 

But who she was I couldn't think, 

And now I cannot tell. 

She asked me if my friends were well, 
Feels flat- j^^^ seemed to pity me ; 
^^'^uts htr^ Invited me to walk with her, 
best foot And stop with her to tea ; 
foremost. You may believe I honored felt. 
And tried polite to be. 

1 first apologized to her 
Is sud- YoY all my damaged plight, 

. , '^^J And for her invitations kind 
taken from 

" the evil to Thanked her with bows polite ; 
come." But scraping back a step or two, 
I vanished from her sight. 

For through a scuttle in the walk 

Mysterious ^ ^^11 like SO much lead ; 

disappear- And for a little season then 

ance. Ob- The light of reason fled ; 

livion; and ^^^ when my sense returned I spoke 

quotation. These lines of Watts I'd read : — 
" Down to the regions of the dead. 
With endless curses on his head." 



CONNECTICUT RI I ER REEDS. 7 7 

But while attempting to escape, 
A servant came for coal, 
Is unjustly ^^'ho gave an outcry and alarm, 
accuseti. To find me in the hole ; 

Then people came and took me out. 
And asked me what I stole. 

That night the 5^ locked me in a cell, 
With scamps of every grade ; 
An event I " hollered " murder half the night, 
ful night. Tj^e other half I prayed. 

I've reason now to think my hair 
That night turned gray a shade. 

At morn they took me -fore a judge — 
Thinks the A righteous judge was he ! — 
judge pi- jjg heard my story with a smile, 
""osed ^ ' ""' ^^^ straightway set me free ; 

And made a pious speech about 
Uncommon verdancy. 

The next walk that I took was just 
To walk straight to the boat, 
home '^re- ^^^ ^^^" ^ Passage pawned my boots 
ception. And remnant of my coat. 

When I got home my father said 
He'd swap me for a shoat. 



T 



HE laugh that followed when he ended. 
With jibes and squibs of satire blended, 
Was such as idlers only hear, — 
Rich music to a loafer's ear. 
The greenhorn turned his grinning phi/, 
And gasped out something like to this. 



78 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

Which caught my ear, disjointed, blent 
With the uprousing merriment : — 
"Laugh — ef you want to — but, I swow, 
It's a fact — truth, — I tell you now ! " 

Soon conversation changed to play 

Upon the topics of the day; 

News, stale enough in distant town, 

Just in the " Hollow " ushered down ; 

Murder and rapine, loss by fire. 

Steamboat exiDlosions, extra dire ; — 

Till last at politics they went, 

And much of breath and speech were spent 

On measures for their country's good ; — 

For, reader, be it understood. 

It was the time, one year in four, 

We dread and joy to see well o'er, 

When politicians drive their trade, 

And some man President is made. 



The doctor, with an effort big 

To speak, defined himself " a Whig" ; 

The farmer and the blacksmith, both 

Said they wore Democratic cloth ; 

The miller, biting off a quid, 

Said he thought "just as doctor did '* ; 

Old " Mose " would not define at all ; 

The wit, lean'd back against the wall. 

His chair uplifted on two legs, 

Shaving a pine stick into pegs. 

Said, not much difference he could see 

*Twixt tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee 

(Original with him, no doubt, 

But since then quoted all about). 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 79 

You're right, my friend, the stranger said, 

I've little wisdom in my head, 

And yet abroad have seen some things 

Your speech to recollection brings ; 

And I will tell a little story 

About the road to fame and glory. 



THE STRANGER'S TALE. 
THE WAY IT IS DONE. — WITH A MORAL. 

J'T'^WAS early one morn, in a log-cabin land, 
\^ Where the tallest air-castles, however, are 
planned. 
Where swagger is often mistaken for sense, 
AnA faith is a thing of no small consequence. 
1 mean not that faith which is taught in the 

Bible, — 
The backwoods professor would sue for a libel ; 
The faith of the Book sees a mansion in heaven. 
But this sees a town where a stake is just driven. 

'Twas early one morn ; 'twas the Fourth of July ; 
Some time must elapse ere the sun lit the sky ; 
And, thinking o'er-night of the glorious day, 
'Twas natural my dreams, too, should wander that 

way. 
So I dreamed, as a Yankee boy frequently will, 
Of Lexington, Concord, and old Bunker Hill ; 
Saw the redcoated column uj) Bunker arise; 
Heard old Putnam's speech 'bout the "white of 

their eyes." 
They neared the redoubt, and the guns bristled 

o'er; 
But just as the Yankees their volley would pour. 



80 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

Martial sounds 'gan to rise. 

And I opened my eyes, 
And thought 'twas a part of the dream gone 
before. 

But I listened, so still ; 

It was not Bunker Hill, 
But without in the street they were making up- 
roar; 

While a man with a fife 

Squealed as if for his life, 
And a drum put in shakes Ole Bull might adore. 

Sleep fled past a doubt ; so I dress'd and went out ; 
Had j-^ou seen what I saw, you'd have laughed with 

a shout : 
The offspring of Orpheus, blowing the fife. 
By the '' cut of his jib," wasn't long for this life ; 
For five feet and five I should judge the utmost 
Longitudinal metre his person could boast ; 
But Nature, kind dame, had made up, it would 

seem. 
Deficit in length, by the " breadth of his beam." 
His hat was " caved in " — had of brim scarce a bit ; 
He wore a short jacket, too small for a fit ; 
And a ludicrous thought flitted over my mind, 
That the fifer was yery full breasted behind. 

The drummer, beside him, personified Saul ; 
As gaunt as a greyhound, and bony, and tall. 

But ever I can 

Describe you this man, 
I'll state the condition of both — that is all : 

Though scarcely 'twas morn. 

They'd both had their corn^ 
Were so drunk, that to stand, they must lean on 
the wall ; 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 81 

The din and devotion 
Inspired them with motion, 
At March! they would go; but at Halt: they 
would sprawl. 

Were I good with the charcoal, my tale I'd adorn 
With a sketch of the drummer that auspicious 

morn. 
A view of his figure — a side view — to me 
Looked, more than aught else, like a bad figure 3 ; 
His hat, which had suffered^ was cocked on one side ; 
His breeks were too short, by a foot, and too wide ; 
On the toe of his left foot, and heel of his right, 
He hitched to the tune of the " Soldier's Delight." 
His aspect was fierce, with a sprinkling of woe. 
His eyes dead ahead, and his arms akimbo ; 

The poor fifer, I fear, 

When he staggered too near. 
Received from his elbows a cruel side blow ; 

A pause would occur, 

A trill or a slm\ 
But the roll of the drum was unbroken, I know ; 

For the sticks down would come 

On the head of the drum. 
And the way rub-a-dub rattled out wasn't slow. 

The rabble behind them were trundling a gun, 
About a ten-pounder, I judged such an one ; 
But foremost, and leading the glorious van. 
Marched a man, 'tis my plan to ban if I can. 
In his gait, in his dress, in his dignified air, 
With his "brethren in arms" like a prince he'd 

compare ; 
He'd striven for ofiice, he'd striven for fame. 
He longed for a deed to emblazon his name. 



82 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

The law was his hobby, at least by pretence ; 

He was great on a ease without need of defence ; 

And his talents, beside, most decidedly were. 

For the use of his countrymen, la militaire. 

How he lived, the Lord knows; but 'twas my cal- 
culation, 

It was partly on faith, partly on speculation. 

He appeared to feel grand; yea, he felt rather 
bigger 

Than the man who had seen Gen'ral Washington's 
"■nigger! " 

But I'll prove him full soon, if my proof doesn't 
fail, 

A " creature of circumstance " ; so to our tale. 

I joined in the march, with an inkling of fun ; 
The music roll'd on, and they trundled the gun. 

They came to a spot, 

A square vacant lot. 
Called after the name of the great Washington. 

The gun was now tried, 

The match was applied. 
And forth belched the thunder to herald the sun. 

It looked like a fight, 

For overcome quite 
The martial musicians lay stretched like the done. 

Bang! bang! went the gun, till there wanted but 

one 
More shot, and the job for the sunrise was done ; 
'Twas likely to fail, for I heard a man swear 
That nothing to serve for a wadding was there. 
To fail in completion the shame would be great, 
Amounting almost to the shame of defeat. 
No ! that wouldn't do ; they must give the last shot, 
But ^vhere was a w^adding at hand to be got? 



CONNECTICUT JUJ-T^H REEDS. 83 

Om- hero stood near, iu contemplative mood, 
Ivuraiuating a speech, as a cow does her cud ; 

But, sudden a thouglit ! 

His pocket he sought 
And drew forth a handkerchief dirty as mud. 

"Here! take that! my lad, 

And use it, egad ! 
The gun shall not fail for the want of a wad ! " 

Soon the gun roared anew, 

Into shreds the rag flew ; — 
"There goes my best handkerchief— silk one — 
by — " 

A drizzle set in ; and the gun was now housed ; 
But fame, for our hero, was fully aroused. 
Her echoing trump was at once to her mouth ; 
All over the district, east, west, north, and south, 
His name spread abroad ; and, spreading, the story 
Gathered in bulk, while it gathered him glory ; 
Till, by the time that the story had back again got, 
In the "last war" he'd killed twenty men atone 
shot! 

The next thing we see in the " People's Gazette " ; 
Our hero for Congress his visage has set. 
The editor, there, Mr. Butcher's-meat's-m, 
Comes out with a column of something like this : 

" It is time for the people to rouse from their sleep ! 
The wolves are abroad in the clothing of sheep ; 

But give the pull long. 

The pull very strong. 
The pull altogether. — Oh ! pull while you weep ! 

'Tis our duty to sow. 

Though our readers must know, 
No person:! 1 benefit hoping to reap. 



84 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

Come, bards, tune your lays 

To our caudidate's praise. 
And we to the music our eyeballs will keep. 
Our man is a patriot, true as the sun ; 
Familiarly known as the ' Son-of-a-gun ! ' 
For what man but he, on that glorious day 
When patriots gather, as patriots may ; 
When likely to fail was the national round. 
And brave men e'en wept when no wadding was 

found ; 
Save he who would suffer, unanswered, we say, 
His own private wardrobe to be shot away ? 
Let his name, like the clouds, o'er Columbia scud! 
Let his name brightly gleam in the annals of blood ! 
Let this deed of his fame be embalmed with the 

tale 
Of Putnam's bold feat, or the hanging of Hale ! " 

Success seemed more sure, as election drew nigher ; 
But one " circumstance" more knocked his fat in 
the fire; 

For lo ! there was one 

That morn, by the gun. 
Who did not exactly belong to the squire ; 

So merely for sport 

He spread the report, 
The candidate w^as as profane as a liar ; 

That he stood on the spot 

When the 'kerchief was shot, 
And the squire swore so bad he was forced to 
retire ! 

Enough ; — for the other side sought out this man ; 
A dollar in hand, and a swig at the can; 
Deposition was made 'fore a magistrate lawful ; 
The man on his oath said the swearing was awful ; 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REKDS. 85 

And next day appeared in the "' Voice of the 

People " 
A yarn half as long as a meeting-house steeple. 
Therein 'twas shown clear as the light of the 

sun, 
'i'hat they should not vote for the Son-of-a-gun. 
They called on the people to rally anew 
And vote for their candidate, called the ''True 

Blue." 
lie had all the other man's patriot pride ; 
Was rather inclined to be pious, beside ; 
►Sure, slander pursued him, but still 'twasn't true 
He once was indicted for stealing an ewe ; 
He held to equality when people meet, — 
Been seen shaking hands with a "nig" in the 

street ; 
And as for his courage, why blest be his name, 
He had entered a house that was roaring on flame. 
And saved, at the imminent risk of his life, 
A print representing John Rogers and wife ; 
Then hurrah for True Blue ! for he only can save 
Our country from Ruin's oblivious grave! 

The contest grew fiercer each following day. 
The young and the old of both sides joined the 
fray ; 

Some voters were bought, 

Some duels were fought ; 
One man had a part of his thigh shot away; 

Both editors wrote. 

The people would quote. 
The candidates mounted the stump for display ; 

While some Oberlin men. 

To the number of ten. 
Bethought it a matter for which they should pray. 



86 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

The day came at last, the ballots were east, 
And both parties' colors were nailed to the mast ; 

But the Oberlin men, 

To the number of ten. 
Struck the friends of Son-of-a-gun all aghast! 

For neither they knew 

The " Gun " or "- True Blue," 
But thought it the safest to vote for the last. 
And this, as their reasons for voting, they gave : 

A man who would greet 

A poor nig in the street. 
Must certainly be a good friend of the slave ; 

And a man who would swear. 

As profane as the " 'square," 
Must certainly be an ungodly old knave. 
^^ " True Blue '" was returned by majority ten. 
And those were the votes of the Oberlin men. 

MORAL. 

Let every " constituent " coming to call. 
Who's seen an election, and lived through it all, 
AVith blush of conviction acknowledge, forsooth, 
That the tale I have told isn't far from the truth. 
When a President's up, or lower the grade 
Of seekers for office, a hubbub is made ; 
A green one, perusing the prints at such times. 
Would deem they'd selected a man for his crimes. 
And though we can't say but a '^ 8on-of-a-guu,'' 
Or another " True Blue," too often is run, 

'Twould be better by far 

To have less wordy war, 
Less blazonry, billingsgate, twitting, and pun ; 

For it all ends in self, 

The pickings and pelf, — 
Division takes place when the battle is won ; 



CONNECTICUT niVER REEDS. 87 

But the government stands 
Though it changes its hands, 
And keeps forward march, as it ever has done. 

The story ended, and the flip 
Went circling round from hand to lip ; 
The stranger paid the shot, you see, 
Because they'd listened patiently. 
Then conversation grew more gay ; 
Most had some funny thing say. 
Till by degrees their stories grew 
Warped sadly from the truth askew. 

The Farmer told a mighty fib 

About the virtues of his rib ; 

What webs she wove; how long they wore — 

Never wore out and never tore. 

The very breeches he had on 

Got hitch'd a white-oak stump upon 

One day, while ploughing ; he held fast 

And cheered his oxen, till at last 

Stump, root and all, broke from the ground. 

But left his breeches whole and sound. 

The Blacksmith said, when he could see 

Better than now, repeatedly 

Cast iron he had wielded well ; 

And tho' the thing seem'd strange to tell, 

All that was needed, on the whole, 

Was gumption and right kind of coal. 

The Wit said that his mother's brother, 
Or great-grandfather — one or t'other — 
Scud in a dreadful gale at sea 
That blew straight to eternity, 



88 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

Ninety-six knots an hour, with all 
The masts gone o'erboard in the squall, 
And nothing but one scupper nail 
Stuck in the deck in place of sail ; 
While o'er it stood one of the crew 
To drive it in, if worse it blew ! 

The Miller's turn came next to try. 

And he essaj^ed a foolish lie 

About the rats, or one great rat 

That in his mill lived sleek and fat ; 

Watch'd him in all he had to do, 

Was tame, and very knowing, too. 

He said the rat, time and again, 

Had sat and watched the grinding grain, 

Perched on the hopper ; and if he 

Forgot to take toll properly. 

The rat would squeak and fidget round, 

Until the toll dish it had found ; 

Select the right one, and would bring it 

If small ; if large, the rat would fling it. 

The Doctor, still tremendous "blue," 
Had no doubt that the tale was true ; 
He now knew why, when he sent grain. 
So little flour came back again ; 
He wouldn't say the miller stole it, — 
The rat had made him double toll it. 
'Tvvas a strange rat, continued he, — 
Strange fact in nat'ral history ; 
But he a yellow dog once had 
That cast his ratship in the shade. 
In his young days he played the flute ; 
The music charm 'd the knowing brute. 
Who'd sit for hours and hear him do it. 
And whine a sort of second to it. 



A 



CONNECTICUT niVER REEDS. 89 

At last, the dog of yellow hairs 

Attempted whining several airs, 

And practised " Yanliee Doodle.^'''' till 

The tiute knocked under to his skill. 

The dog at last essayed to play. 

Or whine out " Hail Columbia.'''' 

He practised long, with patience rare, 

And nearly perfect got the air; 

Still cZo<7gedly resolved to mend it, — 

The trouble was he couldn't end it., 

But the last strains would keep re-whining, 

Till painful 'twas to hear him trying. 

And so for days the poor dog tried. 

Grew thin upon it, sick and died; 

A clear case of a broken heart, 

A martyr to the tuneful art. 

A great dog, that ! — continued he, — 

And brought his hand down forcibly, — 

Hundreds, with lib'ral offers, sought him, 

But, faith ! no money could have bought him. 

Such is a sample of things told 
By those blue wortliies ; and if old 
MuNCHAUSEX had himself been there. 
He'd found his peers, and rivals fair. 

" Come, Uncle Mose ! '' at last cried they, 
" Let's hear what you have got to say." 
But Uncle Mose, in accents slow, 
Said he'd no wond'rous things to show. 
" But we know better," they replied ; 
" You've been all o'er the country-side 
Have been a soldier, and in strife. 
And led a most eventful life : 



90 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

So to hear somethiug now, we mean, 
That you have done, or heard, or seen." 

"Well, gentlemen," quoth Uncle Mose, 
Brushing pipe-ashes from his clothes, — 
" I've no great things to tell, indeed ; 
But if you're willing to give heed, 
A little simple thing I'll show, 
That happened many years ago." 



UNCLE MOSE'S STORY. 

THE little thing I tell about 
Happened, you see, ^^ hen I was out 
In the last war. I used to do 
My duty, like a soldier true, 
And all my company were brave 
Men as e'er saw a standard w^ave. 
Our courage was so noted grown 
That through the army we were known, 
From what, in many a bloody fight. 
We'd " gi'n and took," as "Death's Delight.' 
I say the men were all true blue ; 
Each one some feat of prowess knew, 
And rough and readj^, aye, to show — 
Except myself, of course, you know. 
At last a little thing took place — 
A chance for honor or disgrace — 
Made some impression on my mind ; 
Tho', after all, 'twa'n't much, you'll find. 
We then were stationed near the line. 
This " true blue " company of mine ; 



CONNECTICUT ItlVEIl REEDS. 91 

The enemy just o'er the border 

Were camp'd in scientific order ; 

And frequently our scouts were sent 

To reconnoitre their intent. 

One morn myself and others three 

Were sent to see what we could see, 

And w\arily we kept our tramp 

Some two, three miles outside our camp, 

Each man of us determined he 

Some new thing to report would see ; 

And, faith ! we saw, too late to hit one, 

Three Indians scouting for the Briton. 

They just from out the bush broke cover, 

Pop ! bang ! and laid my comrades over. 

It was a serious time for me. 

Thus left a lone minority, 

And so, thought I, here gives leg bail. 

Or who'll be left to tell the tale? 

So, gentlemen, you see I run. 

Believe me, more for life than fun. 

And being then young, strong, and fleet. 

Grass did not grow beneath my feet. 

Over my shoulder I could see 

The three red devils after me ; 

And after running till I felt 

That I should into soap-grease melt. 

On looking back, I saw that one 

Redskin the others had outrun, 

And with his hatchet poised to throw, 

Was just preparing for the blow. 

I wheeled with desperate intent, 

My eye along the barrel bent 

And let its direful contents fly, 

And hlow\l him to eternity. 



92 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

Then swift as ever on I run, 

Reloading, as I ran, my gun, 

Kicking off this, and then that shoe, — 

Hard followed by the vengeful tw^o ! 

I ran till at the point of death ; 

My heart throb'd hard, I gasped for breath 

But looking back, could see that one 

Redskin the other had outrun. 

And w^ith his hatchet poised to throw, 

Was just i)reparing for the blow. 

I wheeled with desperate Intent, 

My eye along the barrel bent, 

And let its direful contents fly, 

And blow'd Mm to eternity ! 

Then on again 1 led the race ; 

Short seem'd to me my day of grace ; 

'Twas yet a good mile to the camp, 

'Twixt it and me a miry swamp. 

Where 'twere impossible to run ; 

But T reloaded my good gun 

While running like a panting deer 

With bloodhounds gaping in his rear. 

Just as I neared the swamp, I knew 

The game was o'er, the race was through ; 

The sweat was steaming thro' my coat, 

My heart seem'd right here, in ni}^ throat, 

My knees felt weak, my eyes grew dim, 

All things around appeared to swim ; 

But still resolved was I to make 

One effort more, for life's dear sake ; 

So turning round, I yet could see 

The Redskin no great way from me, 

And with his hatchet poised to throw, 

Was just preparing for the blow. 



CONNECTICUT RIVER nEEDS. 93 

I wheeled with desperate intent, 

My eye aloui^ the barrel bent, 

Aud — " Hang it, Uncle Mose ! " cried one, 

" You bio wed him, also ; — do have done ! " 

Xo, gentlemen, drawled Uncle Mose, 

As with a quiet air he rose 

To go ; no, gentlemen, said he. 

That fellow, — d-a-a-mn him ! he killed me ! 

9): * 4= ;ic * St: 

" Landlord," quoth I, " the clock says morn. 
Give Uncle Mose an extra horn ; 
The others have done fairly well. 
But we'll allow he bears the bell." 



SONGS. 

MARY, MAVOURNIN, ACUSHLA MA CREE.* 

THE world it is wide, and the world it is cold, 
And dear to the worldling are silver and 

gold. 
But dearer by far is my Mary to me, 
My Mary, mavournin, acushla ma cree I 

The city may boast of its mansions so fair, 
I care not, tlio' beauty in splendor is there ; 
In a lone, quiet nook a brown cottage I see, — 
There's Mary, mavournin, acushla ma cree I 

* Mary, darling, blood of my heart. 



94 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

Bright gems, such as sparkle in royalty's crown. 
May deck with their lustre the belles of the to\\u. 
But the light of thine eye is a jew^el to me, 
My Mary, mavournin, acushla ma cree ! 

Abroad have I roved like a bird from its nest. 
And viewed Nature's charms from the east to the 

west. 
But her charms — dearest charms — sw^eetly centre 

for me 
In Mary, mavournin, acushla ma cree ! 



THE WINDS THAT FROM MONADNOCK BLOW. 



T 



HE winds that from Monadnock blow. 
When April caps his head with snow. 
Are not so cutting, not so chill. 
As woman can be when she will. 
Yet, after all, an April snow 
Is but a transient thing, we know. 

The blessed breeze that round us plays 
In summer's horrid, torrid days. 
Is not with kindliness so fraught 
As woman can be when she ought. 
So be she kind, or be she chill, 

delightful woman still. 



p 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS 95 

JOSIE, JOSEPHINE. 

iRETTY maiden, picking berries 

In tlie i)astures green ; 
Cheeks like roses, lips like cherries, — 

Josie, Josephine ! 

Joy is in thy features glowing, 

Gladness dwells with thee ; 
Rose of June ! so sweetly blowing. 

Rose of June to me. 

Rich the rural setting round thee. 

But the GEM art thou ; 
Sure if Love had never bound me. 

He will hold me now. 

Half so winning, half so clever 

Ne'er was Gallia's queen ; 
Empress in this bosom ever, 

Josie, Josephine ! 



WHAT TIME THE KINE CAME DOWN THE BRAE. 



W 



7" HAT time the kine came down the brae. 

And Vesper showed her light, 
I held across the fields my way. 
To iDass a happy night. 
Oh ! there is nothing on the earth. 

Beneath the sky above. 
That brighten can the heart of man, 
Like Woman, with her love. 



96 CONNECTICUT lilVER BE EDS. 

A robin carolled, sweet and clear, 

A hymn to parting day ; 
I would have lingered, him to hear, 

If love had let me stay. 

Oh I there is nothing on the earth, etc. 

I saw her at the cottage door. 

Beneath a climbing vine. 
And thought, with worlds I should be poor. 

If she were never mine. 

Oh ! there is nothing on the earth, etc. 

How sweet the welcome that I sought I 

How sparkling, yet sincere ! 
Her speaking eye, that told the thought 

She would not let me hear ! 

Oh ! there is nothing on the earth, etc. 

The cock was crowing for the day, 

When homeward I returned ; 
How cold the dewdrops round my way ! 
How warm my bosom burned ! 

Oh ! there is nothing on the earth. 

Beneath the sky above. 
That brighten can the heart of man. 
Like Woman, with her love. 



w 



WASHIISTG BY THE BROOK. 

HERE the alders girt a grassy. 

Leaf-embowered nook. 
There I spied a cottage lassie 

Washing by the brook. 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 97 

Bright the wavelets glanced beside her, 

Brighter was the look 
That she gave to him who spied her 

Washing by the brook. 

Sweet the songs of birds around her, — 

Songs from Nature's book ; 
Sweeter hers to him who found her 

Washing by the brook. 

Heaven bless her! heaven watch her! 

Pride may overlook, 
But for graces never match her, 

Washing by the brook. 



THE OLD FARMER'S ELEGY. 

ON a green, grassy knoll by the banks of the 
brook 
That so long and so often has watered his flock. 
The old farmer rests in his long and last sleep. 
While the waters a low, lapsing lullaby keep. 

He has ploughed his last furrow, has reaped his 

last grain. 
No morn shall awake him to labor again. 

The bluebird sings sweet on the gay maple bough ; 
Its warblings oft cheered him while holding the 
plough. 



98 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

And the robins above him hop light on the mould, 
For he fed them with crumbs when the season 
was cold. 

You tree that with fragrance is filling the air, 
So rich with its biossoms, so thrifty and fair. 
By his own hand was planted, and well did he say 
It would live when its planter had mouldered 
away. 



cold, 
With its wet, dripi^ing bucket so mossy and old, 
No more from its depths by the patriarch drawn, 
For the " pitcher is broken," the old man is gone. 

'Twas a gloom-giving day when the old farmer 

died. 
The stout-hearted mourued, the affectionate cried, 
And the prayers of the just for his rest did ascend. 
For they all lost a brother, a man, and a friend. 

For upright and honest the old farmer was, 
His God he revered, he respected His laws; 
Though tameless he lived, he has gone where his 

worth 
Will outshine like the gold all the dross of this 

earth. 

He has ploughed his last furrow, has reaped his 

last grain, 
No morn shall awake him to labor again. 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 99 

A FEW LIXES TO THE DEVIL, AND A 
WORD TO THE READER. 

JUSTLY abhorred as thou shouldst be, 
Yet sometimes it appears to me 
The long, black list ascribed to thee 

Is hardly fair; 
Still granting thee, as all agree. 

The lion's share. 
How oft thy attributes are taken 
By men with gusts of temper shaken, 
Men riotous, men God-forsaken, 

Who never think 
How you some day will smoke their bacon 

Black as this ink ! 
A loafer's bowels give him pain, — 
" Ache like the devil," hell complain ; 
Whatever's sad, or bad, or vain — 

All " like the devil '' ; 
Thou hast been, and wilt aye remain 

The old All Evil. 

Thou'rt made most strangely to compare 
To what is foul and what is fair; 
To heat, to cold, to what is rare 

As crows not black ; 
To what is thick as is the hair 

On Bose's back. 
Art thou a spirit or a body? 
Dost water drink, or purchase toddy? 
Dost of State Agent buy? O Lo'ddy I 

They say I must ; * 
Our towns grow thirsty as old Roddy 

Mac Dry-as-dust. 



* Rejoicing In the honor of being just appointed Town 
Agent. 



1 00 CONyECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

If thou'rt a body, I don't see 
How comes thy great ubiquity. 
E'en if a spirit, how can be 

Thy mighty sway ? 
A higher Power is over thee 

All must obey. 

But I will waive all speculation 
And take the old received narration 
That you " still live" and have a station 

Deep down below, 
And where I pray, in contemplation, 

Never to go. 

Your title Mammon, God of Gold, 
Is fittest name of all yon hold ; 
It gives a clew, so we unfold 

To light of day 
The secret of your powers untold 

And general sway. 

My observation this discloses : — 
A man may be as " meek as Moses,'' 
As sweet with virtues as the roses 

In bonnie June, 
Yet people pass him with their noses 

Like the new moon. 

He may a humble follower be 
Of Him who died on Calvary, 
And yet his brethren may agree. 

With " sweet accord," 
He's no " great shakes " to them, you see, 

But to the Lord. 

And would you know the reason why? 
You know it better now than I ; 



i 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 101 

But some this letter may espy 

AVho're no such scholars. 
To them four words will make replj' : 

He lacks the dollars. 

But while men feign great consequence, 
Great virtue, philanthropic sense, 
I think you never make pretence 

To aught but evil, 
Or to be else than the intense 

And downright Devil. 

That's candid, surely ; and if ever 
Mankind would grow more good and clever, 
They must their oitm deceit dissever, 

And look within ; 
And at thy door, in future, never 

Lay every sin. 

Don't take the trouble to replj^ 

To this epistle. Know that I 

Have not Job's patience, but should die 

With best of nursing. 
And fear that potsherd come to try, 

There might be cursing. 

Yet one can't tell what he might do ; 
Surprise themselves and others, too ; 
Folks will sometimes — that's very true — 

For once be clever ! 
liCt me alone and I will you. 

Henceforth forever. 

And thou who read'st, don't think me wrong 
To beat this diabolic gong ; 



102 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

I know it is no polished song 

Where dactyls gleam ; 

The language, too, is something strong, 
But how's the theme? 



TO THE VIOLIN. 

INSCRIBED TO R. D. HAWLEY, HARTFORD, OWNER 
OF " KING JOSEPH," CALLED THE FINEST 
OLD VIOLIN IN THE WORLD. 

CHERISH "King Joseph ! " ^Vho may tell 
What sweet, enchanting numbers dwell 
Within that time-stained, trembling shell? 

I fain would hear 
A master hand, with magic spell, 
Bid them appear. 

Sweet solace of a lonely hour, 
All gratefully I own thy dower 
To recreate, — when cares devour 

Life's peace, life's rest. 
My spirit thy reviving power 

Seeks, and is blest. 

What genius first invented thee ? 

The pages of chronology 

We scan in vain his name to see; 

He's lost to fame, 
But sweet Euterpe's Gem shall be 

Thy titled name. 



CONNECTICUT Rl VER REEDS. 1 Oi 

More like thy infant state was rude ; 
Like some wikl floweret of the wood, 
Untrained, yet giving hkelihood 

Of richness vast, 
That cultivation, skilled and good, 

Brings forth at last. 

Once did a good old grandame say 
Thou wert a wicked thing and gay; 
But since, " beyond the bourne," away 

With Paganini, 
She's heard tliat mnster spirit play, — 

What say you, granny? 

I'm thinking had King David known 
Tliee, and the skill in handling shown 
That he displayed in slinging stone. 

It's safe in saying 
That Saul the spear had never thrown 

To stop his playing. 

And furthermore, compared with you, 
That harp, which makes so much ado. 
Was a dull bird, according to 

My observation; 
Or else we moderns don't renew 

Its fabrication. 

When prospects dismally are blue ; 
When straight-sent projects slant askew ; 
When wants are great and ways are few, 

'Tis then, old shell. 
Thou canst exorcise and eschew 

The evil spell. 

When thoughts, a sad and gloomy train, 
Parade upon the mental plain. 



104 CONNECTICUT RIVER REKD^. 

And reason's strongest force is vain 

To clear the field, 
Thy cheerful, animating strain 

Will make them yield. 

Princes and poets, priests and kings, 
Have drawn the music of thy strings ; 
Statesmen have given airy wings 

To cares of state, 
To dwell upon the beauteous things 

Thou canst create. 

Some homeless wanderer, maybe, 

Far from his own nativity'. 

Who's lived his household gods to see 

Spread to the blast. 
Halts feebly on, but unto thee 

Clings to the last. 

Such are thy charms, I do not wonder 
That he who forged our July thunder,* 
Which woke the land to rend asunder 

Our British chains. 
Should daily o'er thee love to ponder 

And wake thy strains. 

When soft on Bernard sleeps the dew. 
And over Powsic's bosky blue 
The yellow moon climbs into view. 

Calm and serene, 
How dear communion is with you! 

How sweet the scene ! 

* President Jefferson, author of the Declaration of Tnde. 
pendence, was a skilful performer on the violin, and 
devoted two hours daily to its practice. 



CONNECTICUT lllVICn i:h:KI)S. lOo 

Gone then the labors of the day ; 
Flown Care's ill-omened birds of prey ; 
Thy gliding sweetness brings a ray 

Of hope so clear, 
That clouds and darkness lift away 

And disappear ! 



THE DESERTED SCHOOL-HOUSE. 
I. 
J " I ^WAS a desolate spot on a drear, lonely lot, 
Jl^ Where the wild winter winds blew amain. 
And the summer suns beat with a tropical heat 

On the sands that reflected again, — 
There the old school-house stood, all a ruin and 
rude, 
With mosses o'erstrewed and o'erlain. 

II. 

O'er its roof rose a pine leaning off an incline 

From its line, perpendicular base, 
With a hole in its side where a bonfire had died. 

And the bark warping wide from its face ; 
And its arms gaunt and bare, sprawled aloft in 
the air 

Like the spectre of Care, o'er the place. 

III. 
O'er the threshold I stept, and a harvest I reapt 

Of thoughts, as I swept with my eye 
The walls, grim and old, with the stain and the 
mould, 
And the carvings untold, and O, fie ! 



106 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

And the sketchings in coal of some fanciful soul 
Long ago o'er the goal of Good-by. 

IV. 

For I thought how of yore on the ruinous floor 
Ranged the half-score, or more, of the "class,' 

To be catechised well, or to read, or to spell, 
On the grammar to dwell, and to " pass " ; 

The grown and the stout, the woman, about. 
The little, the lout, and the lass; 



Of the "master" severe, with his pen o'er his 
ear, 
And the eye piercing clear through and through ; 
With his ferule in hand, and the word of com- 
mand 
That was sore to withstand, I tell you ; 
Of the awe that was felt when with culprits he 
dealt, 
The outcry, the welt black and blue. 

VI. 

Of the " schoolma'am " so kind, so obligingly 
blind 

As never to mind little failings ; 
Of her love for her care ; of no learning to spare, 

But of heart prompt to share in their ailings ; 
Of the "last day " so sad, when, in holiday clad. 

Her last tokens were had with loud wailings. 

VII. 

They are gone ! all are gone ; and the ruin is lone, 
And the wind with a moan whistles through. 

And the voice of the Past I detect in the blast — 
O dreamer ! at last, so with you ! 



CONNECTICUT JIIVER REEDS. 107 

What is life but a school? Tlie great Master gives 
rule ; 
Act the wise, shun the fool, and be true. 



B 



RHEUMATISM. 

TTRNS had the toothache,— but, O cracky! 
D'ye ever have a '"'■crick in the back,"' eh? 
Or sweet sciatic' to attack ye, 

Boring your hip? 
Or rheumatism sharp to rack ye 

With twisting grip? 

Toothache, forsooth, is bad enough, 
But there's a remedy, tho' rough ; 
Step to the dentist in a huff. 

Be prompt and bold ; 
Sit down, and cry, *' Come on, Macduff," 

With iron cold ! 

One gentle wrench ! and all is done ; 

'Tis finished, even while begun. 

And tho' you thought earth, moon, and sun 

Had smashed together. 
You know that you've the victory won, 

And all's fair weather. 

But mark the man who, hale and strong. 
Would willing drive his work along, 
For work drives him ; a whistle, song, 

His toil beguiles ; 
His cattle fear not gad or thong, — 

Their master smiles. 



i08 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

But, all at once, ascends a howl ! 
He looks as solemn as an owl ; 
His smiles depart ; a painful scowl 

Steals o'er his phiz ; 
Perhaps his language isn't foul, — 

Perhaps it is. 

What can have wrought a change so quick. 
And turned the well man to the sick. 
His spine into a rigid stick 

That breaks to bend ? 
He's stricken with the woful '^ crick" 

The Furies send. 

With awful dignity, and slow, 
He seeks the crib his cattle know ; 
Unyokes them ; harshly bids them, Go ! — 

Thwack I there — go faster ; 
While in-doors, grappling with the foe, 

Ketu-es the master. 

First, brandy out of apples fried, 
Hot with red pepper, is applied; 
''Mustang," "Pain-killer" next is tried. 

Without avail ; 
Some old-wives' salve, hot shovel dried, — 

In turn to fail. 

O, see him, whom no thing could frighten, 
Proud as a drover safe at Brighton ! 
Now, best of markets could not lighten 

His aggravations ; 
His back scored like the rock at Dighton, 

By " apiDlications." 

He rises slowly from his chair. 
Remains half bent a moment ; — there ! 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 109 

Novvcoines the pinch, — take care ! — t<ike care ! 

Just grin, and go it ! 
lie straightens up with, Oh!— I— swear! 

As saith the poet. 

His pitying, sympathetic bride 
Tries hard a quiet smile to hide ; 
His guileless infants open wide 

Their wondering eyes. 
To see their lofty Union " slide," 

Holding his thighs. 

O for the heart of him of old 

AVho high-priced pottage made and sold! 

Who wrestled with the angel, bold, 

Until the morning ; * 
Sciatic, and the angePs hold, 

The whole time scorning. 

" I will not let thee go,'' he said, 

" Except thou bless me." Reader, dread, 

CJive me your blessing; and if led 

By human-ism, 
Attribute aught amiss you've read 

To Bheumatism. 



T 



AUTUMNAL. 

HE yellow leaves, the sober sun, 
The shaven harvest plain, 

Betoken summer's work is done 
And autumn here again. 



See Genesis, chapter xxxii. 21-26. 



110 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

And as upon the scene I gaze, — 
The pleasing, fading show, — 

How from the Eld come other days, 
And autumns long ago ! 

A boy, inspired by Nature's charm, 

Her willing devotee, 
The lonely limits of the farm 

Were all the world to me. 

The streamy vale, the smoky haze, 
The bordering mountains blue, 

The mild attempered solar blaze, 
The woods in splendors new. 

The well-kept gun, the happy dog 
That scoured the water brink, 

And sought in woods or sedgy bog 
The squirrel or the mink. 

The happy nights I mind again 
That with those days were wed : — 

The kettle bubbling on the crane. 
The feast of chestnuts spread. 

The south wind in the maples o'er 
The lowly kitchen eaves. 

The fitful sound, without the door, 
Of rustling, drifting leaves. 

The social chat, the well-worn book 

Of fancy or of lore, 
Or tales beside the chimney-nook. 

Well loved, though heard before. 

What wonder, to the man of years, 
Who sees with careful eyes. 

Such vision of the past appears 
A blessed paradise ! 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. Ill 

THE BORDER HUNTER. 

WHEN the sun of the wilderness settles away, 
With the dark winter night fast approach- 
ing, 
And the breath of the North, like a spirit of prey, 
On the sun's vanished warmth is encroaching, 

Note the lone border hunter, afar from his home, 
Alone, save his dog, — cold and weary; 

His thoughts on the past and companionship roam, 
AVhile the prospect at present is dreary. 

So he strikes up a spark and he kindles a light, 
And anon the bright blaze is ascending. 

And the chill of the wind and the glooms of the 
night 
Stand aloof from the cheer he is tending. 

And he basks in its warmth, and his dog too 
seems glad 

As he licks his wet coat that is smoking ; 
And the hunter forgets that before he was sad. 

In the comfort his fire is evoking. 

I have been there and know ; and I think how a 
friend. 

When one is overclouded by sorrow. 
Can comfort and cheer, and a blessing extend 

To help him till dawns the to-morrow. 



THE HUNTER'S HOME. 

A LONELY and sequestered spot 
It was, where stood the hunter's cot ; 
No neighbor's chimney smoked the sky, 
No highway brought the passer-by ; 



112 CONNECTICUT Rl VER REEDS. 

No sound of art there reached the ear, 
No plough-bo}-, even, whistled near ; 
Naught but the wild '^ commingled hum, 
Voice of the desert, never dumb." 

Yet it was pleasant there to be 
And its outlook of beauty see : — 
The bordering blue of mountains far, 
The valley wide where waters are ; 
The rolling slopes, in autumn dun. 
Warmed by the Indian summer sun ; 
The forest on the upland wide 
In all its grand primeval pride ; 
The cold spring bubbling near at hand, 
Its basin white with filtering sand ; 
And near by, from a dark ravine, 
A stream went winding o'er the scene. 

Beneath the lee of sheltering wood 
On easy slope the cottage stood ; 
A low-eaved, weather-beaten one, 
With door that faced the southing sun ; 
While either side, two maples spread 
A branchy archway overhead. 

Here, all secluded and alone. 
Dwelt the old hunter and his crone ; 
A couple past their prime in j^ears, 
But hale as middle life appears; — 
Simple as children in the lore 
That blazes from the college door; 
And yet, they wisely understood 
All craft pertaining to the wood ; — 
All Nature's signs in earth or sky, 
Could make their points and reason why, 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 113 

Till one skilled in scholastic lore, 
Who sought to teach them to explore, 
Could, when his steps might homeward turn, 
Confess he yet had much to learn. 

From them the tyro learned to set 

The fatal trap and lucky net ; 

From them the farmer learned to tell 

The coming season, fair or fell ; 

To them the ailing came for aid 

In herbal compounds that they made, 

And wondrous was that aid, be sure, — 

Or was it faith that wrought the cure? 

Here happy lived the honest pair, 
Unvexed by worldly ways and care ; 
Their wants but few, and well supplied ; 
Their comforts rude, but undenied. 

When night in autumn settled wild 
And the dead leaves in drifts were piled ; 
Or when hoarse roaring came the blast 
Of Winter, driving madly past, — 
How pleasant 'twas, secure and warm, 
To bide the peltings of the storm 
Beside the hunter's chimney wide 
That yawned half o'er the cottage side, 
And watch the blazing logs that threw 
Their lambent flames half up the flue j 
And hear the kind old hunter tell 
Of the exploits he loved so well ; 
AVhile the surroundings pictured all : — 
The well-kept gun upon the wall ; 
The horn with quaint devices etched ; 
The otter's skin so smoothly stretched ; 
The bunch of pelts, — old biddy's foes, — 
All deftly hanging by the nose ; 



114 CONN EC TIC UT EI VER REEDS. 

The shapely snow-shoes, laeed with care 
The branching antlers fastened there ; 
With other trophies of the chase, 
All pointed out with date and place. 
His dog, too, on the hearthstone wide, 
His brave companion, and his pride, 
To whom he spoke in word and tone 
Just as he talked to any one ; — 
And, what is strange, perhaps, to tell. 
Dog seemed to comprehend as well. 

Or, bringing forth his violin, 

He drew the bow and turned the pin. 

Till, all in harmony complete, 

He woke such strains of music sweet 

Would bring a cripple to his feet. 

The color of the dark old shell 
Matched with its master's visage well ; 
And neither player nor the played 
Looked the grand music that they made. 

O, I've at famous concerts been 
And heard the mad harmonic din ; 
Strains full of fury and of sound 
Where no significance is found ; — 
But hear some master-spirit raise 
The good old airs of other days I — 
The soulful ones that father Time 
Wedded to reason and to rhyme 
Long, long ago, — ere Strauss was born. 
Or AVagner sighted Luna's horn ; — 
And all Time's blottings have withstood 
For reason that withstand they should. 

So plaj^ed the hunter, while the rain 
Pattered against the darkened pane, 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 115 

And the night-wind with soughing sound 
Blew wild the lonely dwelling round. 
Some plaintive strathspej-, passing sweet, 
Went gliding on its rhythmic feet ; 
Anon, some bold and martial spell, 
Heroic, woke the trembling shell. 
Or sounding hornpipe by his bow 
Rocked through the scale from high to low 
In notes as sweet as e'er were born 
Of robin in the dawn of morn. 

O ye who pore o'er heavy books, 
And leave the lessons of the brooks ; 
Who, prompt o'er Fiction's dreams to weep. 
Ne'er heard the forest anthem deep ; — 
O ye, w ho born of pride and place, 
Xe'er studied Nature's honest face, — 
Deem not her lowly children fools ; — 
She has her teachings and her schools. 



'T 



A WINTER THAW. 

IS winter ; but the night is mild 

After the softening rains ; 
The snow is gone, save here and there 

A drifted patch remains. 

The mantling vapor wraps the hill. 
From off the humid ground ; 

A fox is barking in the cloud, — 
I hear the lonely sound. 



i 1 6 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

I hear the swash of swollen floods 

Along the streamy vale, 
And e'en the cascade's whisper-voice 

Roars like a coming gale. 

The stars are hidden ; and the moon 

Shows like a spectre white 
Behind the rack that draws aloft 

Its curtain o'er her light. 

'Tis a weird night ; the traveller, 

Alone upon the road, 
Sees wayside windows burnished bright. 

And longs for his abode. 



UNADILLA BROOK. 

S'VVEET stream, how memories o'er thee spring, 
Like autumn morning's filmy wing. 
That marks thy w indiug way ! 
For life's first light, my earliest days. 
Were tethered to thy " banks and braes " 
With bonds that surely stay. 

The Indian loved thee, for I trace. 
Hither and yon, his dwelling place 

Along thy pleasant plains ; 
And oft my ploughshare's cleaving w^ay 
Turns upward to the light of day 

All that of him remains. 

How soft this Indian summer sun 
Shines on thy waters as they run, 
And shores of fading green ! 




>s 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 117 

The Spirit of the Past appears, 
And Hfts the veil that hides the years 
That you and I have seen. 

And as I backward look away, 
I see the barefoot child at play 

Thy tuneful path beside ; 
Or, in his rudely fashioned boat 
[ see him set himself afloat 

With all a sailor's pride. 

The sunny bank, the sandy down, 
Xamed for some great commercial town, 

His ports of entry made ; — 
The awe he felt in floating o'er 
Thy deeps enshadowed by the shore 

And black with alders' shade! 

The frequent shipwreck that he met ; 
The slow home progress, dripping wet; 

The careful mother's pain ; 
The birch prescription, well applied 
To quell the rising seaman's pride, — 

But, ah ! applied in vain. 

Do children see with larger eyes? 
Or is thy volume less in size? 

It seems that both must be ; 
For then full brimmed thy current flowed, 
Thy awful pools no bottom showed ! — 

A river thou to me. 

The fisher-boy with line and hook ; 

The spangled people of the brook ; 

The lustrous pearl so rare ; 



118 COXXECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

The mink, the musquash, and the duck; — 
Did ever boj^ have braver luck, 
Or more enjoyment share ! 

And since, — how many days I've wrought 
Along thy side, en wrapt in thought. 

Communing, lone, with tliee! 
The happy, careless song you bore 
Was babbled as in days of j'ore. 

But sad my minstrelsy. 

The fatal morn, the solemn day. 
Flown, save from memory, far away, — 

There it is vivid yet, — 
When dead upon thy bosom fell 
The honored sire I loved so well ! — 



Ah, me ! if offered to enjoy 
The happy freedom of the boy, 

And live it o'er again, 
And pay the tax of ripened years, 
The griefs, the troubles and the tears, 

The offer were in vain. 

Sweet Unadilla ! when my eyes 

See thee no more, thy voice will rise, 

Soft murmuring along 
Its liquid, gliding melody, — 
Oh, could the bard awake with thee 

The never-dying song ! 



CONNECTICUT HI VER REEDS. 119 

POEM 

DELIVERED AT THE RETURN OF THE " OLD IXDIAN 
DOOR," AND FAIR AND FESTIVAL AT DEER- 
FIELD, MASS., FEB. 29, 1868. 

WHEN" one has passed upon a weary way, 
And toil and dangers have consumed the 
day; 
When restless care and all his stock of skill 
Barely averted the impending ill ; — 
How welcome, thrice, to him his fireside bright, 
That glows before him with its ruddy light ! 
Gone, then, the perils of the weary waj-; 
Gone, then, the torturing troubles of the day ; 
Refreshed and happy in his easy chair. 
He rests at ease, and cries " Avaunt ! " to care. 

So, when a hardy and adventurous band 
Break up the fallow of a savage land, 
And wage with Circumstance a fearful strife, — 
One hand for dailj'^ bread, and one for life ; 
One eye to guide the plough, and one to spy 
The lurking foeman, and the danger nigh; — 
Wlien, through the perils of successive years, 
By sleepless watch, by prayers, by blood, and 

tears, 
Success awards them with a civic crown, 
They are become a People, and a Town, — 
Then, as the peaceful years roll smoothly on, 
The dangers vanished, and the foeman gone. 
And smiling fields in place of savage land, — 
How can the children of that hardy band 
Exult in peaceful, plenteous homes, at last, 
And shut the door upon the trials past? 
Door^ did I say? Ah! that's the very thing 
I came, to-night, to Deerfleld street to sing; 



120 CONNECTICUT RtVER HEEDS. 

And, whate'er some may say, I say not wrong, 

'Tis no mean theme for sermon or for song. 

For instance: "Door of Mercy," — "Door of 

Hope " ; 
And yet, this kind is scarce within my scope. 
I yield the showing of these blessed doors 
To Dr. Crawford., and to Brother Moors^* 
Hoping you'll enter in their thresholds o'er, — 
And point my nnmhers to the " Indian Door."' 

Door of Old Memories ! thy battered face 
We welcome home again, its fittest place. 
There are who're said to " go away from home " 
(Meaning from welfare) — wherefore didst thou 
roam ? 

Here, where you stood in those dark days of yore, 
And did brave duty as a Bolted Door ; 
Where you withstood the Indians' fiendish rage 
Who on your tablet scored a bloody page ; 
Where you survived the havoc and the flame. 
And float Time's tide, to-day, a Door of Fame; — 
Here, where for long decades of years gone down 
You've served attractor to this grand old town, 
Made for yourself and physics one name more, — 
For thou hast been, shalt be. Attraction'' s Door. 
Here, where years since, a w^onder-loving bo}^ 
I first beheld thee with a solemn joy. 
Gazed on thy silent face, but speaking scars, 
And dreamed of " auld lang syne " and Indian 

wars. 
Door of the Past thou wast, indeed, to me, 
And Door of DeerfeJd thou shalt ever be ! 

* The reverend orators on the occasion. 



CONNECTtCU T niVER REEDS. 121 

Here, grim old relic ! thou shalt aye repose, 
By keepers guarded, uiiassaUed by foes ; 
Stronger in age than most doors iu their prime, 
The Indian's hatcliet and the scythe of Time 
Thou hast defied ; and tho' no more for harm 
'Gainst thee the painted warrior nerves his arm, 
Shalt still defy the blade of Time so keen. 
Till he his scythe shall change for the machine. 

Bless thee, old relic ! — old, and brave, and scarred ! 
And bless Old Deerfikld! says her grandson 

Bard. 
Towns may traditions have, by Error spun, 
She has the Door of History, —here's the cue ! 



T 



LINES TO A BEE. 

HOU'RT weary, busy little thing ! 

Thy load is large, and small thy wing; 
And then to give that Highland Jliug 

As you alighted I 
No wonder you displayed your sting 

Before you righted. 

All things have failings, so we see ; 
E'en thou who art, as all agree, 
The very soul of industry. 

And else of merit. 
Art tempered like the very De , 

Nay, Evil Spirit. 



122 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

When morning opes her brightening eye, 
Thou scan'st the aspect of the sky, 
And if no murky storm be nigh 

Or tempest hover. 
Your tiny wings are spread to fly 

To fields of clover. 

There, busy through the livelong day. 
You cull your sweets and bear away ; 
And though for miles abroad you strny, 

Xe'er lost in strajnng ; 
Thou art for straightness in survey 

A common saying. 

From bees man may a lesson draw 
In order, government, and law ; 
No law he ever framed that saw, 

Of time the tithe 
Of that which back to chaos raw 

Has marked the hive. 

No change your government has made 
Since bees at first their taste displayed. 
Nor shall new laws derange your trade. 

Ye sweet distillers ! 
Till earth and bees at rest are laid 

By fire or Millers, 

Fixed in one course, you firm abide ; 
And, though all patriotic pride, 
You never boast you've bled and died 

To save your nation ; 
Then come to life and long preside 

In some fat station ; 

But let a foe invade your ground. 

And hark ! liow fierce the warriors sound ! 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 123 

No lack of practice cither's found — 

All seek the fight ; 
And he who'd face the vollej^ed round 

You'll put to flight. 

E'en Samson, whose strong arm refused 
No giant deed, upon you mused ; * 
But still I'm thinking he abused 

You grossly, sonny ; 
Some foul chicanery he used 

To get your honey. 

O, could old Sloth thy habits know ! 
Could Uncle Sam thy wisdom show, 
How round his public purse would grow I 

How deep his pocket ! 
How would his ioco-motive go 

Ahead, like Crocket ! 



LINES TO A TURTLE, 

MARKED IN 1841 AND MET AGAIN WHILE HAYING 

IN 1878. 

WELL met again, old crony queer! 
To me 3'ou little changed appear 
Since first I met you in the year 

Forty and one. 
Though seven-and-thirty years, 'tis clear, 
Since then are gone, 

* Judges, chapter xiv. 



124 CONNECTICUT lUl'ER REEDS. 

The same stern face, and nose so Roman ; 
Its counterpart " Aunt Liz" could sliow oi;e. 
Are you a turtle-man or woman? 

Aunt Liz was both, 
And not a crawler or a slow one, 

I'd take my oath. 

Well, well ! you seem to take life easy ; 
No cares oppress or troubles tease ye ; 
If doubts, misapi)rehensions seize ye, 

In goes your head, 
And for as long as it may please ye 

You're same as dead. 

How different with human kind ! 
In constant harassment of mind. 
And if no real ill he find 

To brood and ponder. 
Imagination stands behind 

All drafts to honor. 

Ah, little could the mower tell 
The day he carved upon your shell 
The letters that begin to spell 

His humble name, 
What held the Future, fair or fell, 

Or praise, or blame ! 

Of those who wrought with him that day, 
Here l)y the l)rookside making hay, 
All, save himself, are laid away 

In their last sleep. 
And one brave heart lies in the gray 

And solemn deep. v 

The changes, too, that scarce the tongue 
Can tell, or comprehend the young ! 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 125 

Here where the tool of Time we swung, 
The team is mowhi^;-; 

And where the whetstone's music rung, 
The gear is going. 

Then news was stale ere we could hear 
Fi-om the old world, now brought so near 
By telegraphic cantrip queer 

From Morse we borrow, 
That if to-day " Vic " scratch her ear, 

We know to-morrow. 

And now the telephone, they say. 
Will bring a voice that's far away 
Close to our ear, so that we may, — 

When one may try so, — 
Hear old Zip Coon his banjo play 

Out in Ohio. 

And more than that, so rumor teaches. 
We may can up, as one would peaches. 
Music and poems, sermons, speeches, 

And then let loose 
Their softest tones and loudest screeches, 

Whene'er we choose. 

Since then have politics run mad ; 
We've sagged to leeward, and the bad ; 
A bitter dose of war have had, 

And still are ailing, — 
A war which all the country clad 

In weeds of wailing. 

Then straight and narrow was the way 
Up leading to eternal day ; 



126 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 

At least, our preachers used to say- 
Such was the case ; 

It's widened now, and thereon they 
Two-forty pace. 

New lights have dawned on us henighted ; 
New creeds are framed, old doctrines slighted ; 
Credulity thrives well delighted ; 

The medium sergeant 
Now warns up spirits to be sighted, — 

(None seen but ardent). 

But you seem anxious to be going ; 
No wonder, after such bestowing ; 
But who knows what Time will be showing 

Four decades onV 
When we no more at time of mowing 

Shall meet anon. 

Good by I Full long you've borne my card ; 
Long o'er it yet may you keep ward I 
I hope that none will use you hard, 

But when they meet j^ou, 
Kespect the feelings of a bard. 

And kindly greet you. 



TO A RED SQUIEREL, 

BARKING AT ME WHILE PASSING THROUGH A 
WOOD. 

C"^ OOD conscience ! what can be the matter 
y To call forth such an awful clatter! 
Dost think that I am come to scatter 

Salt on thy tail? 
About thy head and ears to patter 
The leaden hail? 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 127 

You don't insinuate, I hope, 

I'm some defaultei- on the slope^ 

Or some poor brain-bewildered mope 

Whom you can hector. 
One thing is sure, — there's no " soft soap " 

About your lecture. 

Just stop awhile your saucy din. 
And think about the heinous sin 
Of judging people, kith nor kin. 

Before you know them ^ 
If thoughts are in your squirrel skin, 

Then you may show them. 

How many, blest with reason's light, 
Have passed wrong judgment at first sight 
And poured unwittingly their spite 

Where least deserved. 
And fawned on those who from the right 

Have basely swerved ! 

With lies, poor Kit, I will not cheat thee ; 
The time has been when thus to meet me 
Were to meet death : but now I'll treat thee 

Just as one should. 
That oft hereafter I may greet thee 

Here in the wood. 

You seem to feel quite safe ; — you are ; 
I would not harm of thee a hair ; 
But I've a word or two to spare 

By way of stricture : 
Of impudence thou art a rare 

And striking picture ! 

Take my advice ; don't imitate 
The human race at such a rate ! 



128 CONNECTICUT IlIVER REEDS. 

Your consequence may e'en be great, 
Though one must doubt it ; 

For man, Uke thee, may storm and prate, 
Yet be without it. 

Could he who speaks for Bunkum stand 
And hear thee rate and reprimand ! 
His frothy speeches sagely planned, 

You'd plainly show him ; 
He tills with nonsense all the land, — 

You fill my poem. 



INDIAN SIBIMER. 

SOFT falls the hazy light upon 
The hillside, plain, and vale ; 
The yellow leaves bestrew my path, 

And down the stream they sail. 
I note them halting by the brink, 

And idling as they run, 
Or dancing o'er the ripples bright 
That glimmer in the sun. 

On yonder woody bank I hear 

A rustling 'mid the leaves ; 
Borne on the still and hollow air 

The sound my ear deceives ; 
I deem the heavj'-treading kine 

Are coming down the brae, 
WTien nothing but a squirrel light 

Is skipping there away. 







1.2 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 1 29 

The hunter's distant gun I hear 

The forest echoes wake ; 
'Tis pity that such sullen sounds 

The holy calm should break ! 
I fancy how with dying throes 

The harmless quarry bleeds ; 
How man but little mercy shows, 

Who so much mercy needs ! 

A solitary bee afield, 

Allured by these bright hours, 
Flits like a fay before my eyes ; — 

She'll find no honey-flowers, 
For they have perished ; one by one 

I marked them fade from view, 
And nothing but the blackened stalk 

Appears where late they grew. 

How kind, how pleasant is this sun, 

When cold the winds have blown ! 
The winds that bear the early frosts 

Down from the bleaker zone. 
'Tis not the burning August sun, 

Nor that of fierce July, 
But soft effulgence lights the earth, 

And glorifies the sky. 

It is the Indian summer time! 

So full of placid joy; 
The dolcefar 7iiente that 

I dreamed of when a boy. 
And it is like a blissful dream. 

Like such it soon is past ; 
Too bright to linger with us long, 

Too beautiful to last. 



130 CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 



I 



THE FIELD FLOWER. 

BADE the panting oxen stay 

The turf-inverting plough, 
For fervid beat the vernal day, 

And damp with toil my brow. 
So, idly halting with the team, 

For want of else to do 
I pulled a flower, beneath the beam, 

That o'er the furrow grew. 
A thousand times I'd seen it blow 

And crushed it with the plough, 
But never cared its name to know 

Or heed it, until now. 

^ow, as I scann'd with new delight 

Its leaves and petals o'er, 
A wondrous beauty met my sight, 

Not dreamed its own before. 
And as the plough moved on again 

I followed, musing how 
Among the lofty sons of men 

VYORTH may as humbly bow ; 
Exempt, as is yon little flower, 

Alike from praise or blame ; 
As homely in its outward dower, 

As noteless in a name ; 
Unnoticed by the would-be great. 

Downtrodden and passed by, 
As sure beneath life's furrow weight 

In cold neglect to lie ; 
Unless, perchance, — the chance how rare 1 

Some turn of fortune's wheel 
Lift from the dust the treasure fair. 

And all its wealth reveal. 



A 



CONNECTICUT RI VER REEDS. 131 

A NEW-YEAR'S LAY — 1880. 

LOXE 1 walk life's rugged track 

With slow and sober tread ; 
Its rising sun a long way back, — 

Its sundown there ahead. 

Alone ! for she, my hope, my pride, 

Who gave me all her trust, 
Has, wayworn, fallen l)y my side, 

And slumbers in the dust. 

Alone 1 for others who began 

The march that I essayed, 
Have broken ranks, and one by one 

Are resting in the shade. 

Too rough the way ; too tierce tlie strife ; 

Too burdensome the load ; 
They've fallen in the march of life, 

And left me on the road. 

Yet not alone ! for memory dear 

Calls them around me still ; 
Their voices fancy bids me hear ; 

Their looks remembrance fill. 

In what blest realms do they now wear 

The meed of soldiers true, 
Promoted from the strife to share 

The peace I cannot view '? 

Beat, heart ! the bosom of a man I 

Lift hope and courage high ! 
Well will the Great Commander plan ; 

March on, and trust, and try ! 



1 32 CONNECTICUT RI VER REEDS. 



O 



NIGHT WATCH— AUGUST 31. 

THOU to whom the rolling years 
Are moments of our time ; 
Thou whose existence, lone, appears 
Eternal and sublime ! 

I see Thy star-bespangled sky. 

Thy comet-torches shine. 
And wonder if Thine awful eye 

Can notice me or mine ! 

I hear Thy voice in thunder fill 

The caverns of the skj^, 
And wonder if the prayer I will 

Comes to Thy hearing nigh. 

I see Thy whirling breath uptwist 
And dash the forest down ; 

And think, how futile to resist 
The anger of Thy frown ! 

I gaze upon the fields of space 
No mortal foot hath trod. 

And in the awful Boundless, trace 
The mystery of God. 



THE OLD COUNTRY CHURCH. 

A PILGRIM paused upon the hill that over- 
looked the dale 
()'(M' which the Indian summer spread its soft, 
( uchanting veil ; 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 133 

There lay the hamlet, as of old, a pnnt in Nature's 

book; 
There ran the bubbling waters of the ever-flowing 

brook ; 
And there, amid its neighbor trees, and pointing 

upward higher, 
Stood the old parish meeting-house, and lifted up 

its spire. 

Then passed before the pilgrim's view a vision of 

his youth, 
When led within those sacred walls to hear of God 

and Truth ; — 
The pulpit, on its pedestal, with carvings quaint 

and rare ; 
The time-stained pews, devoid of paint, and ranged 

upon the square ; 
The wasps that would, with spring-time days, 

mysteriously come, 
And flies that had a dusky look and sanctuary 

hum. 

The good old Dominie aloft, with reverential 

look. 
The open volume spread before, — that mighty folio 

book; 
ITis moralizing sermon, and his matchless gift of 

prayer. 
And sacerdotal robe of silk that graced his sacred 

air; 
The canopy above his head, suspended by a 

hand., — 
A point of wonder to the child, and speculation 

grand. 



1 34 CONNECTICUT HI VER REEDS. 

The choir that in the gallery in solemn order stood, 
Their venerable leader, half as musical as good; 
His wooden pitch-pipe, dark with age, his l)e;iting 

motions queer. 
Leading the old-time melodies of Dundee and of 

Mear ; 
And when liis aim would slowly on through AVind- 

hams measures sweep, 
'J'he old would very solemn feel, and little sinners 

weep. 

The congregation, old and young, were gathered 
there again : 

The magistrate who kept a store, and shining Sun- 
day cane ; 

The honest farmer, gray and old, — old-fashioned 
even then. 

Who slept, and woke and stroked his queue, and 
went to sleep again ; 

The good- wife with her placid face set in a ruffled 
frill. 

So redolent of piety, and caraway, and dill. 

The youngster, awkward in his best, but comfort- 
less, array. 

With reddened face, and collar limp, a-sweating 
out the day ; 

The maiden blooming as the flower that tastefully 
she wore ; 

The pauper and the blackamoor together near the 
door ; 

While, unadmonished by the truths within the 
Gospel lines, 

Some ne'er-do-well, in corner pew, was " cutting 
up his shines." 



CONNECTICUT RIVER REEDS. 135 

E'en the old dog, that knew full well vvheuever 

Sunday came, 
And left oflf secular pursuits, and worrlment of 

game, 
To follow, like disciple meek, his goodly master 

there, 
And calmly take his wonted place upon the pulpit 

stair ; 
And, ere he slept, would cast about in such a pious 

way 
As said : You see a Christian dog that keeps the 

Sabbath day. 

^Vliere are they now? the pilgrim sighed, — tlie 
congregation dear. 

That gathered in the former days to worship and 
to hear? 

And, as he spoke, his vision fell where in the hazy 
light 

" God's acre " lay in turfy mounds and monu- 
mental white ; 

No answer broke the stillness of the drowsy, 
dreamy air. 

For answer none was needed well to tell him they 
were there 



WIND OF THE WINTER NIGHT. 



w 



IND of the winter night ! I hear 

Thy midnight voice, weird, wild, and drear, 

Sad, solemn, slow ; 
Hear it without my window pane 
Sound, in the soul-arousing strain. 

The voice of long ago. 



136 COKNECTICUT Rl VER REEDS. 

That hollow, voiceful spirit tone, 

An instant heard, then vanished, gone, 

Unlocks the past ; 
And lights of other days that lie 
Deep in the mists of memory, 

Flash bright and fast ! 

Some vivid scene of long ago, 

Of life's first fires, or love's soft glow, 

Buried for years 
In ashes of the past from sight, 
Wakes, at the tone, again to light, 

And reappears. 

The form, the words of some loved one 
Once by my side, now parted, gone 

To realms unseen ; 
Or, haply, separated wide 
By weary leagues of land and tide ; 

And years between. 

O memory sad ! O memory sweet I 
How often, thus evoked, I meet 

Again my lost ! 
My arms are outstretched to embrace, 
But heart to heart, and face to face 

Is but the ghost. 

Mysterious life ! How little we 
Know what we are, or what shall be 

When "dust to dust" ; 
But that dread Power that formed the soul 
Is wise to order and control ; 

There rest, and trust. 

THE END. 



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